LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


. 


XF 


BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC   (1889) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIB  MUSIC  (iwo) 

MELOMANIACS  (1902) 

OVERTONES  (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OF  DRAMATISTS  (1906) 

VISIONARIES  (1905) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN  (1909) 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST  (1910) 

FRANZ  LISZT.    ILLUSTRATED  (1911) 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE  (1912) 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS  (1915) 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS  (1915) 

UNICORNS  (1917) 

BEDOUINS  (1920) 

In  Preparation 
STEEPLEJACK.      TWO  VOLUMES 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


BEDOUINS 


From  a  photograph  by  De  Meyer 

MARY  GARDEN— HERSELF 


BEDOUINS 


MARY  GARDEN,  DEBUSSY, 

CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS,  BOTTICELLI,  POE,  BRAHMSODY, 
ANATOLE  FRANCE,  MIRBEAU,  CARUSO  ON  WHEELS, 

CALICO  CATS,  THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT; 

IDOLS  AND  AMBERGRIS;  WITH  THE  SUPREME  SIN, 

GRINDSTONES,  A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC,  AND 

THE  VISION   MALEFIC 


JAMES    HUNEKER 


WITH  VARIOUS  PORTRAITS   OF   MARY  GARDEN  IN 
OPERATIC  COSTUME 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  February,  19.20 


COPYRIGHT,  W9,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  ESS  ESS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  SUN  PRINTING  &  PUBLISHING  ASSN. 


PS 

Z044 

H4 

B4 


THIS  BOOK  OF  BEDOUINS 
IS  DEDICATED 

"A  la  tres-belle,  a  la  tr£s-bonne,  £  la  tr£s-chere." 


"J'aime  mieux  le  d6sert,  je  retourne  chez  les  Beclouins 
qui  sont  libres  .  .  .  ." 

Gustave  Flaubert. 

"The   Bedouins  camp  within  Pharaoh's  palace  walls, 
and  the  old  war-ship  is  given  over  to  the  rats." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


CONTENTS 

PART  I— MARY  GARDEN 

I.  SUPERWOMAN 3 

II.  INTIMATE 15 

III.  THE  BABY,  THE  CRITIC,  AND  THE  GUITAR  21 

IV.  INTERPRETER 3<> 

V.  M£LISANDE  AND  DEBUSSY 45 

VI.  THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT     ....  53 

VII.  THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU     .     .  64 

VIII.  ANARCHS  AND  ECSTASY 73 

IX.  PAINTED  Music 8l 

X.  POE  AND  His  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY       .  94 

XI.  GEORGE  LUKS ™6 

XII.  CONCERNING  CALICO  CATS 118 

XIII.  CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 125 

XIV.  CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 134 

XV.  SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 144 

XVI.  ANATOLE  FRANCE:  THE  LAST  PHASE   .     .154 

XVII.  A  MASQUE  OF  Music 164 

vii 


CONTENTS 
PART  //—IDOLS  AND  AMBERGRIS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  SUPREME  SIN 177 

II.    BROTHERS-IN-LAW 201 

III.  GRINDSTONES 216 

IV.  VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 225 

V.    THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 247 

VI.    RENUNCIATION 256 

VII.    THE  VISION  MALEFIC    .  261 


Vlll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mary  Garden — Herself  .......  Frontispiece 

PACING  PAGE 

Rosina  Galli 24 

Mary  Garden  as  M61isande 34 

Mary  Garden  as  Monna  Vanna 38 

Mary  Garden  as  Salome 78 

Rosina  Galli  as  the  Princess  in  "Le  Coq  d'Or"   .  140 


PART  I 
MARY  GARDEN 


SUPERWOMAN 

LA  BEAUTfi 

"Je  suis  belle,  6  mortels!  comme  un  reve  de  pierrc, 
Et  mon  sein,  ou  chacun  s'est  meurtri  tour  a  tour, 
Est  fait  pour  inspirer  au  poete  un  amour 
fiternel  et  meut,  ainsi,  que  la  matiere." 

— Charles  Baudelnire. 

THAT  little  girl  down  Boston  way,  who  had 
mastered  William  James  and  Boris  Sidis  before 
she  was  in  her  teens,  behaved  badly  one  after- 
noon. Possibly  it  was  the  sultry  weather,  or 
growing  pains — in  the  psychic  sphere,  of  course 
— or,  perhaps,  it  may  have  been  due  to  the  re- 
flexes from  prolonged  attention  to  the  Freudian 
psycho-analysis  and  the  significance  of  Twilight 
Sleep;  but  whatever  the  cause,  that  precocious 
child  flew  off  her  serene  handle  and  literally 
' 'sassed"  the  entire  household.  The  tantrum 
over — she  afterward  described  it  as  a  uric-acid 
storm — and  order  reigning  once  more  in  Bach 
Bay,  she  was  severely  interrogated  by  her  male 
parent  as  to  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  her 
singular  deviation  from  accustomed  glacial  in- 
tellectual objectivity.  Her  answer  was  in  the 
proper  key:  "My  multiple  personalities  failed  to 
3 


BEDOUINS 

co-ordinate.  Hence  the  distressing  lack  of  cen- 
tripetal functioning."  She  was  immediately  for- 
given. Multiple  personalities  are  to  blame  for 
much  in  this  vale  of  tears;  that  is,  if  you  are 
unlucky  or  lucky  enough  to  be  possessed  of  the 
seven  devils  of  psychology. 

Mary  Garden  was,  no  doubt,  a  naughty  little 
girl  in  her  time.  That  she  climbed  trees,  fought 
boys  twice  her  size,  stuck  out  her  tongue  at 
pious  folk,  scandalized  her  parents,  and  tore 
from  the  heads  of  nice  girls  handfuls  of  hair,  I 
am  sure.  Hedda  Gabler  thus  treated  gentle 
Thea  Elvstad  in  the  play.  But  was  this  demon 
Mary  aware  of  her  multiple  personalities?  Of 
her  complexes?  Her  art  fusion  is  such  perfect 
synthesis.  Subconscious  is  nowadays  an  excuse 
for  the  Original  Sin  with  which  we  are  saddled 
by  theologians. 

Well,  one  bad  turn  deserves  another,  and  we 
may  easily  picture  the  wild  Scottish  thistle  de- 
fiantly shrugging  shoulders  at  law  and  order. 
She  did  not  analyze  her  Will-to-Raise-Merry- 
Hell.  No  genius  of  her  order  ever  does.  There 
had  been  signs  and  omens.  Her  mother  before 
her  birth  had  dreamed  wonderful  dreams; 
dreamed  and  prayed  that  she  might  become  a 
singer.  But  even  maternal  intuition  could  not 
have  foreseen  such  a  swan  triumphantly  swim- 
ming through  the  troubled  waters  of  life.  A 
swan,  did  I  say?  A  condor,  an  eagle,  a  peacock, 
a  nightingale,  a  panther,  a  society  dame,  a  gal- 
lery of  moving-pictures,  a  siren,  an  indomitable 
4 


MARY  GARDEN 

fighter,  a  human  woman  with  a  heart  as  big  as 
a  house,  a  lover  of  sport,  an  electric  personality, 
and  a  canny  Scotch  lassie  who  can  force  from 
an  operatic  manager  wails  of  anguish  because  of 
her  close  bargaining  over  a  contract;  in  a  word, 
a  Superwoman. 

My  dear  friend  and  master,  the  late  Remy  de 
Gourmont,  wrote  that  man  differs  from  his 
fellow  animals — he  didn't  say  "lower" — because 
of  the  diversity  of  his  aptitudes.  Man  is  not 
the  only  organism  that  shows  multiple  person- 
alities; even  in  plant  life  pigmentation  and  the 
power  of  developing  new  species  prove  that  our 
vaunted  superiorities  are  only  relative.  I  may 
refer  you  to  the  experiments  of  Hugo  de  Vries 
at  the  Botanical  Gardens,  Amsterdam,  where 
the  grand  old  Dutch  scientist  presented  me  with 
sixteen-leaf  clover  naturally  developed,  and 
grown  between  sunset  and  dawn;  also  an  eve- 
ning primrose — ^Eonthera  Lamarckiana — which 
shoots  into  new  flowers.  Multiple  personalities 
again.  In  the  case  of  Mary  Garden  we  call  her 
artistic  aptitudes  "the  gift  of  versatility."  All 
distinguished  actresses  have  this  serpent-like 
facility  of  shedding  their  skin  and  taking  on  a 
fresh  one  at  will.  She  is  Cleopatra — with 
"serpent  and  scarab  for  sign" — or  Melisande, 
Phryne,  or  Monna  Vanna;  as  Thais  she  is  both 
saint  and  courtesan,  her  Salome  breeds  horror; 
and  in  the  simplicities  of  Jean  the  Juggler  of 
Notre  Dame  a  Mary  Garden,  hitherto  sub- 
merged, appears:  tender,  boyish,  sweet,  fantastic; 
5 


BEDOUINS 

a  ray  of  moonshine  has  entered  his  head  and 
made  of  him  an  irresponsible  yet  irresistibly 
charming  youth. 

Not  without  warrant  is  Karma  believed  in  by 
people  whose  imagination  cannot  be  penned  be- 
hind the  bars  of  Now.  Before  to-day  was  yester- 
day, and  to  traverse  that  Eternal  Corridor  of 
Time  has  been  the  fate  of  mankind.  The  Eternal 
Return — rather  say,  the  Eternal  Recommence- 
ment— mad  as  it  seems,  is  not  to  be  made  mock 
of.  It  is  always  the  same  pair  of  eyes  that  peer 
through  windows  opening  on  infinity.  What  the 
Karmas  of  Mary  Garden?  In  spirit-land  what 
avatars!  Is  she  the  reincarnation  of  that 
Phryne  of  the  "splendid  scarlet  sins,"  or  the 
Faustine  who  crowded  into  a  moment  the  mad- 
ness of  joy  and  crime;  or  the  recrudescence  of 
a  Sapho  who  turned  her  back  on  the  Leuca- 
dian  promontory,  turned  from  the  too  mascu- 
line Phaon  and  sought  her  Anactoria,  sought 
and  wooed  her  with  lyric  sighs;  has  she  recap- 
tured, this  extraordinary  Mary  of  Aberdeen,  the 
soul  of  Aspasia,  who  beguiled  Pericles  and 
artistic  Athens  with  the  sinuous  irony  of  the 
serpent;  and  Gismonda,  Louise,  and  Violetta, 
all  those  subtle  sonorous  sinners — was  she  in 
her  anterior  existence  any  or  all  of  them? 
Did  she  know  the  glory  that  was  Greece,  the 
grandeur  that  was  Rome?  Henry  James  has 
warned  us  not  to  ask  of  an  author  why  he  selects 
a  particular  subject  for  treatment.  It  is  a  dan- 
gerous question  to  put;  the  answer  might  prove 
6 


MARY  GARDEN 

disconcerting.  And  with  Miss  Garden  the  same 
argument  holds.  Her  preference  for  certain 
characters  is  probably  dictated  by  reasons  ob- 
scure even  to  herself.  With  her  the  play- 
instinct  is  imperious;  it  dominates  her  daylight 
hours,  it  overflows  into  her  dream-life.  Again 
the  sounding  motive  of  multiple  personalities, 
Karma,  subconsciousness,  the  profound  core  of 
human  nature.  And  on  the  palette  of  her  art 
there  is  the  entire  gamut  of  tones,  from  passion- 
ate purple  to  the  iridescent  delicacies  of  iris- 
grey. 

That  Mary  Garden  interprets  a  number  of 
widely  differentiated  characters  is  a  critical 
platitude.  Chapter  and  verse  might  be  given 
for  her  excellences  as  well  as  her  defects.  Nor 
does  she  depend  upon  any  technical  formula 
or  formulas.  Versatility  is  her  brevet  of  dis- 
tinction. An  astounding  versatility.  Now,  the 
ways  and  means  of  the  acting-singer  are  differ- 
ent from  actors  in  the  theatre.  Dramatic 
values  are  altered.  The  optique  of  the  opera 
shifts  the  stock  attitudes,  gestures,  poses,  and 
movements  into  another  and  more  magnified 
dimension.  Victor  Maurel,  master  of  all  sing- 
ing-actors, employed  a  sliding  scale  of  values  in 
his  delineation  of  De  Nevers,  Don  Giovanni, 
lago,  and  Falstaff.  His  power  of  characteriza- 
tion enabled  him  to  portray  a  Valentine  true  to 
type,  nevertheless  individual;  and  if  there  is  a 
more  banal  figure  on  the  operatic  boards  than 
Valentine,  we  do  not  know  his  name  (perhaps 
7 


BEDOUINS 

Faust  .  .  .!).  But  every  year  the  space  that 
separates  the  lyric  from  the  dramatic  stage  is 
shrinking.  Richard  Wagner  was  not  the  first 
composer  to  stress  action;  he  is  the  latest,  how- 
ever, whose  influence  has  been  tremendously 
far-reaching.  He  insisted  that  the  action  should 
suit  the  singing  word.  To-day  acting  and  sing- 
ing are  inextricably  blended,  and  I  can  conceive 
of  nothing  more  old-fashioned  and  outmoded 
than  the  Wagnerian  music-drama  as  interpreted 
in  the  dramatic  terms  of  the  old  Wagnerian  sing- 
ers. They  walked,  rather  waddled,  through  the 
mystic  mazes  of  the  score,  shouted  or  screamed 
the  music,  and  generally  were  prodigious  bores — 
except  when  Lilli  Lehmann  sang.  After  all, 
Wagner  must  be  sung.  When  Jean  de  Reszke 
pictured  a  Tristan — a  trifle  of  the  carpet-knight 
— he  both  sang  and  acted.  It  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the  New  Wagner,  a  totally  changed 
Wagner,  else  his  music-drama  will  remain  in 
dusty  pigeonholes.  Debussy  has  sounded  the 
modern  key. 

There  is  bora,  or  reborn — nothing  is  new  since 
the  early  Florentines — a  New  Opera,  and  in  its 
train  new  methods  of  interpretation.  Merely 
to  sing  well  is  as  futile  as  attempting  to  act 
though  voiceless.  The  modern  trend  is  away 
from  melodrama,  whether  Italian,  French,  or 
German;  away  from  its  antique,  creaking  ma- 
chinery. Debussy  patterned  after  Wagner  for 
a  time  and  then  blazed  new  paths.  As  Serge 
ProkorierT  so  acutely  observed  to  me:  "In  Pel- 
8 


MARY  GARDEN 

16as  and  Melisande  Debussy  rewrote  Tris- 
tan and  Isolde."  The  emotional  scale  is  trans- 
posed to  fewer  dynamic  values  and  rhythms 
made  more  subtle;  the  action  is  shown  as  in  a 
dream.  The  play's  the  thing,  and  reality  is 
muffled.  Elsewhere  we  have  studied  the  Meli- 
sande of  Mary  Garden.  Like  her  Monna 
Vanna,  it  reveals  the  virtues  and  shortcomings 
of  the  New  Opera.  Too  static  for  popular  taste, 
it  is  nevertheless  an  escape  from  the  tyranny  of 
operatic  convention.  Like  the  rich  we  shall 
always  have  "grand  opera"  with  us.  It  is  the 
pabulum  of  the  unmusical,  the  unthinking,  the 
tasteless.  Its  theatricalisms  are  more  depressing 
than  Sardou's.  The  quintessence  of  art,  or  the 
arts,  which  the  modern  Frenchmen,  above  all, 
the  new  Russian  composers  (from  the  mighty 
Slavic  races  may  come  the  artistic,  perhaps  the 
religious  salvation  of  the  world — for  I  am  a  be- 
liever in  Dostoievsky's,  not  Tolstoy's,  Christian- 
ity), are  distilling  into  their  work  is  for  more 
auditors  than  the  "ten  superior  persons  scat- 
tered throughout  the  universe"  of  whom  Huys- 
mans  wrote.  There  is  a  growing  public  that 
craves,  demands,  something  different  from  the 
huge  paraphernalia  of  crudely  colored  music, 
scenery,  costume,  lath  and  plaster,  and  vocifer- 
ous singing.  Oh,  the  dulness,  the  staleness,  the 
brutal  obviousness  of  it  all!  Every  cadence 
with  its  semaphoric  signalling,  every  phrase  and 
its  accompanying  gesture.  Poetry  is  slain  at  a 
stroke,  the  ear  promise-crammed,  but  imagina- 
9 


BEDOUINS 

tion  goes  hungry.  The  New  Art — an  art  of 
precious  essences,  an  evocation,  an  enchantment 
of  the  senses,  a  sixth  sense — is  our  planetary 
ideal. 

And  in  the  New  Opera  Mary  Garden  is  the 
supreme  exemplar.  She  sounds  the  complex 
modern  note.  She  does  not  represent,  she 
evokes.  She  sings  and  she  acts,  and  the  densely 
woven  web  is  impossible  to  disentangle.  Her 
Gaelic  temperament  is  of  an  intensity;  she  is 
white-hot,  a  human  dynamo  with  sudden  little 
retorsions  that  betray  a  tender,  sensitive  soul, 
through  the  brilliant,  hard  shell  of  an  emerald 
personality;  she  is  also  the  opal,  with  it  chame- 
leonic hues.  Her  rhythms  are  individual.  Her 
artistic  evolution  may  be  traced.  She  stems 
from  the  Gallic  theatre.  She  has  studied  Sarah 
Bernhardt  and  Yvette  Guilbert — the  perfect 
flowering  of  the  "diseuse" — but  she  pins  her 
faith  to  the  effortless  art  of  Eleonora  Duse. 
The  old  contention  that  stirred  Coquelin  and 
Henry  Irving  does  not  interest  her  so  much  as 
does  Duse.  We  have  discussed  the  Coquelin- 
Irving  crux:  should  an  actor  leave  nothing  to 
chance  or  should  he  improvise  on  the  spur  of 
high  emotions? — that  is  what  the  question 
comes  to.  Miss  Garden  denied  her  adherence 
either  to  Coquelin  or  Irving.  I  asked  her  to 
give  us  a  peep  into  her  artistic  cuisine  while  she 
prepared  her  sauces.  Notwithstanding  her  re- 
fusal to  let  us  participate  in  the  brewing  of  her 
magic  broth,  I  still  believe  that  she  sided  with 
10 


MARY  GARDEN 

Coquelin.  She  is  eminently  cerebral.  And  yet 
her  chief  appeal  is  to  the  imagination.  Not  a 
stroke  of  her  camel's-hair  brush,  not  the  boldest 
massing  of  colors,  are  left  to  chance.  She  knows 
the  flaming  way  she  came,  she  knows  the  misty 
return.  Not  a  tone  of  her  naturally  rich,  dark 
voice  but  takes  on  the  tinting  of  the  situation. 
This  doesn't  forbid  a  certain  latitude  for  tem- 
peramental variations,  which  are  plentiful  at 
each  of  her  performances.  She  knows  tempo 
rubato  and  its  value  in  moods.  She  has  mas- 
tered, too,  the  difficult  quality  described  by 
William  Gillette  as  the  First-time  Illusion  in 
Acting.  Various  are  the  Mary  Gardens  in  her 
map  of  art. 

And  she  is  ours.  Despite  her  Scottish  birth 
she  has  remained  invincibly  Yankee.  Despite 
long  residence  in  her  beloved  Paris,  enough 
American  has  rubbed  off  on  her,  and  the  resili- 
ent, dynamic,  overflowing,  and  proud  spirit  that 
informs  her  art  and  character  are  American  or 
nothing.  Race  counts.  Can  any  good  come 
out  of  our  Nazareth  of  art?  The  answer  is 
inevitable:  Yes,  Mary  Garden.  She  is  Our 
Mary.  Lyrically,  dramatically  ours,  yet  an 
orchid.  Dear  old  Flaubert  forcibly  objected  to 
Sarah  Bernhardt  being  called  "a  social  expres- 
sion." But  she  was,  and  this  despite  her  Dutch 
ancestry  and  the  exotic  strain  in  her  blood. 
Miss  Garden  may  not  emphasize  her  American 
side,  but  it  is  the  very  skeleton  of  her  artistic 
organism.  Would  that  an  Aubrey  Beardsley 
ii 


BEDOUINS 

lived  to  note  in  evanescent  traceries  her  potent 
personality,  a  rare  something  that  arouses  the 
"emotion  of  recognition,"  but  which  we  cannot 
define.  "  Come,"  said  Berlioz  to  Legouve  in  the 
early  years  of  the  third  decade  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. "I  am  going  to  let  you  see  something 
which  you  have  never  seen,  and  some  one  whom 
you  shall  never  forget."  Berlioz  meant  the 
playing  and  personality  of  Frederic  Chopin. 
Garden  is  leagues  asunder  from  Chopin — who 
was  the  rarest  apparition  of  his  age;  but  as  an 
interpretative  artist  she  is  rare  enough  for  sym- 
pathetic writers  to  embalm  in  the  amber  of  their 
pagan  prose;  definitely  to  pin  to  their  pages  this 
gorgeous  dragon-fly. 

Another  bribe  to  her  audience  is  the  beauty 
of  Mary  Garden.  But  I  do  not  wish  here  to 
dwell  upon  its  value  in  her  unforgettable  por- 
trayals of  the  dear  dead  grand  ladies,  the  stately 
courtesans  of  the  dim  past.  Stephane  Mal- 
larme  wrote  a  poem,  though  not  in  verse,  de- 
picting a  crowd  assembled  in  the  canvas  house 
of  the  Interpreter  of  Past  Things. 

George  Moore  thus  Englished  "The  Future 
Phenomenon."  A  showman  tells  the  despair- 
ing, ugly  men  and  women  of  his  wonderful  prize. 
"No  sign  regales  you  of  the  spectacle  within, 
for  there  is  not  now  a  painter  capable  of  present- 
ing any  sad  shadow  of  it.  I  bring  alive  (and 
preserved  through  the  years  by  sovereign  sci- 
ence) a  woman  of  old  time.  Some  folly,  original 
and  simple,  in  ecstasy  of  gold,  I  know  not  what 
12 


MARY  GARDEN 

she  names  it,  her  hair  falls  with  the  grace  of 
rich  stuffs  about  her  face  and  contrasts  with 
the  blood-like  nudity  of  her  lips.  In  place  of 
her  vain  gown  she  has  a  body;  and  her  eyes, 
though  like  rare  stones,  are  not  worth  the  look 
that  leaps  from  the  happy  flesh;  the  breasts, 
raised  as  if  filled  with  an  eternal  milk,  are 
pointed  to  the  sky,  and  the  smooth  limbs  still 
keep  the  salt  of  the  primal  sea.  ..."  You 
think  of  fair-haired  Melisande  as  she  exquisitely 
murmurs  her  pathetic  "Je  ne  suis  pas  heureuse 
ici." 

Some  years  ago  in  Paris  I  saw  and  heard  the 
Garden  Traviata.  The  singing  was  superlative; 
she  then  boasted  a  coloratura  style  that  would 
surprise  those  who  now  only  know  her  vocaliza- 
tion. It  was,  however,  the  conception  and  act- 
ing that  intrigued  me.  Originality  stamped 
both.  The  death  scene  was  of  unusual  poign- 
ancy; evidently  the  young  American  had  been 
spying  upon  Bernhardt  and  Duse.  This  episode 
adumbrated  the  marvellous  death  of  Melisande, 
the  most  touching  that  I  can  recall  in  either  the 
lyric  or  dramatic  theatre.  It  is  a  pity  that  she 
cannot  find  sterner  stuff  than  Massenet,  Leroux, 
Fevrier,  and  the  rest  of  that  puff-paste  decora- 
tive school.  There  are  composers,  too,  of  more 
vital  calibre  than  Camille  Erlanger.  Debussy 
is  a  master;  but  there  must  be  newer  men  who 
could  view  Mary  Garden  as  the  ideal  exponent 
of  their  music.  Meanwhile,  she  has  discovered 
a  rdle  in  which  she  would  pique  the  curiosity  of 


BEDOUINS 

the  most  uncritical  mossbacks.  She  has  added 
Isolde  to  her  long  list.  Mary  Garden  and 
Isolde !  Incredible !  Nevertheless,  an  interest- 
ing experiment  this  if  she  could  be  persuaded  to 
voice  the  sorrows  of  the  Irish  Princess.  It 
would  be  no  longer  Wagner.  It  would  suffer  a 
rich  sea-change.  Wagner  muted,  perhaps  Wag- 
ner undone;  certainly  unsung  if  we  remember 
glorious  Olive  Fremstad.  But  a  magical  Isolde, 
with  more  than  a  hint  of  the  perversely  exotic 
we  feel  in  Aubrey  Beardsley's  drawings  of  Isolde 
and  Tristan.  The  modern  note  again.  Beards- 
ley  paraphrasing  Botticelli;  Watteau  plucking 
at  the  robe  of  Rubens;  Debussy  smiting  the 
chords  of  Wagner.  Such  an  Isolde  would  be 
too  bewildering  to  be  true. 


II 

INTIMATE 

"Et  on  fait  la  guerre  avec  de  la  musique,  des  panaches, 
des  drapeaus,  des  hanches  d'or.  ..." 

— Tentation  de  Saint  Antoine  (slightly  altered}. 

THE  penalty  of  publicity  is  one  which  singers 
seldom  evade.  Little  need  to  give  the  reason, 
nevertheless,  for  sensitive  souls  it  is  a  trial  to 
see  one's  personality  put  in  the  wash,  squeezed, 
and  hung  up  to  dry  with  other  linen  in  the  piti- 
less laundry  of  the  press.  Some  singers  are  born 
advertisers,  some  achieve  advertising,  but  few 
have  advertising  thrust  upon  them.  That  sort 
usually  fade  into  shadow-land  rather  than  face 
the  fierce  white  light  which  beats  about  the 
operatic  throne.  Really,  it  must  be  disconcert- 
ing for  a  woman  singer  to  hear  herself  discussed 
as  if  she  were  a  race-horse.  Every  point  in  her 
make-up  is  put  on  a  platter  ready  to  serve 
hot  in  the  newspapers.  You  fancy  yourself 
overhearing  the  conversation  of  jockeys  and 
trainers.  "Oi  sye,  Bill,  that  there  filly  is  goin' 
queer.  Jest  look  at  her  fetlocks,  and  her  crup- 
per is  gettin'  too  heavy.  Take  her  out  for  an 
hour's  spin  on  the  downs.  Breathe  her  a  bit 
and  then  give  her  a  hard  sweatin'  run  and  a 


BEDOUINS 

rub  down.    No  water,  Bill,  mind  ye,  or  I'll 
knock  yer  block  off." 

The  private  life  of  a  prima  donna  is  not  unlike 
that  of  a  racing  mare's.  Flesh  reduction,  with 
all  the  succulent  food — and  champagne — are 
banished;  indulgence  spells  decadence,  and  de- 
cadence is  eagerly  noted  by  the  psychic  detec- 
tives known  as  music-critics.  We  are  not  in 
the  game  to  find  fault  as  simple  souls  imagine, 
but  to  register  values,  vocal  and  personal. 
It's  a  pity,  but  this  is  a  condition  and  not  a 
theory.  We  have  heard  of  a  Mary  Garden  cult. 
Now,  as  has  been  said  by  Dr.  Wicksteed,  a  cult 
is  always  annoying  to  those  who  do  not  join  in 
it,  and  generally  hurtful  to  those  who  do.  But 
is  there  such  a  Garden  cult?  We  doubt  it. 
She  has  a  certain  gleet  following,  and  for  those 
admirers  she  can  do  no-  wrong.  She  has  aroused 
the  critical  antagonism  of  some  who,  rightly 
enough,  point  out  her  obvious  limitations.  To 
these  the  gruff  reply  of  Brahms  is  appropriate. 
A  presuming  youth  called  his  attention  to  a 
theme  in  a  work  of  his  which  was  evidently 
borrowed  from  Mendelssohn.  "That  any  fool 
can  see,"  said  the  crusty  Johannes.  The  voice 
of  Miss  Garden  is  sometimes  a  voice  in  the  wil- 
derness: sandy,  harsh,  yet  expressive.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  Geraldine  Farrar,  who 
every  year  is  gravitating  toward  the  zone,  not 
of  silence,  but  of  the  singing-actress.  A  Gallic, 
not  an  Italian  zone.  Voice  does  not  play  the 
major  r61e;  acting,  that  is,  dramatic  character- 
16 


MARY  GARDEN 

ization,  does.  Not  to  recognize  in  Miss  Garden 
the  quintessence  of  this  art — not  altogether  a  new 
one,  and  its  most  perfect  flowering  is  the  art  of 
Yvette  Guilbert — is  to  miss  the  real  Mary  Gar- 
den. Voilatout!  We  saw  a  like  misunderstand- 
ing of  Eleonora  Duse.  Immediately  she  was  com- 
pared, and  unfavorably,  with  Sarah  Bernhardt, 
when  she  was  achieving  something  vastly  differ- 
ent, and,  I  think,  vastly  finer.  Sarah  was  more 
brilliant,  Duse  more  human;  the  one  an  orches- 
tra, the  other  an  exquisitely  balanced  string 
quartet.  Mary  Garden  is  the  nearest  approach 
to  Duse  on  the  lyric  stage. 

Mary  Garden,  too,  is  "different,"  in  the  sense 
Stendhal  meant  that  banal  word.  Her  cadenced 
speech  is  not  singing  in  the  Italian  manner. 
To  begin  with,  her  tonal  texture  is  not  luscious. 
But  there  are  compensations.  Every  phrase  is 
charged  with  significance.  She  paints  with  her 
voice,  and  if  her  palette  is  composed  of  the 
cooler  tones,  if  the  silver-greys  and  sombre 
greens  of  a  Velasquez  predominate,  it  is  because 
she  needs  just  such  a  gamut  with  which  to  load 
her  brush.  She  is  a  consummate  manipulator 
of  values.  To  be  sure,  we  do  not  expect  the 
torrential  outbursts  of  Margaret  Matzenauer. 
Why  confuse  two  antithetical  propositions?  I 
don't  look  at  one  of  the  Paul  Cezannes  in  the 
rare  collection  of  Miss  Lillie  Bliss  expecting  the 
gorgeous  hues  of  a  Monticelli.  Cezanne  is  a 
master  of  values.  And  if  these  similes  seem 
far-fetched — which  they  are  not;  music  and  color 
17 


BEDOUINS 

are  twins  in  the  Seven  Arts — then  let  us  pitch 
upon  a  more  homely  illustration:  Mary  Garden 
is  an  opal,  Margaret  Matzenauer  a  full-blown 
rose.  Voltaire  said  that  the  first  man  who  com- 
pared a  woman  to  a  rose  was  a  poet;  the  second, 
an  ass.  I  hope  Mme.  Matzenauer  will  accept 
the  simile  in  the  poetic  sense. 

Nuance,  which  alone  makes  art  or  life  endur- 
able, becomes  an  evocation  with  Miss  Garden. 
I  lament  that  she  is  not  in  a  more  intimate  set- 
ting, as  the  misted  fire  and  rhythmic  modulations 
of  her  opaline  art  and  personality  are  lost  in 
such  a  huge  auditorium  as  the  Lexington  Thea- 
tre. I  saw  her,  a  slip  of  a  girl,  at  Paris,  early 
in  this  century,  and  framed  by  the  Opera  Com- 
ique,  of  whose  traditions  she  is  now  the  most  dis- 
tinguished exponent.  She  was  then  something 
precious:  a  line  of  Pater's  prose,  the  glance  of 
one  of  Da  Vinci's  strange  ladies;  a  chord  by 
Debussy;  honey,  tiger's  blood,  and  absinthe; 
or  like  the  enigmatic  pallor  we  see  in  Renais- 
sance portraits;  cruel,  voluptuous,  and  suggest- 
ing the  ennui  of  Watteau's  L'Indifferent. 

She  is  all  things  to  all  critics. 

There  are  those  who  see  in  her  the  fascinating 
woman.  And  they  are  justified  in  their  belief. 
There  are  those  who  discover  in  her  something 
disquieting,  ambiguous;  one  of  Baudelaire's 
"femmes  damnees"  from  whom  he  fashioned  his 
Beethovenian  harmonies,  fulgurating,  profound: 
"Descendez  le  chemin  de  1'enfer  eternel!  .  .  . 
flagelle's  par  un  vent  qui  ne  vient  pas  du  del." 
18 


MARY  GARDEN 

.  .  .  And  there  is  still  another  group  to  which 
I  adhere,  one  that  envisages  Mary  in  the  more 
lucid  light  of  an  admirable  artist,  who  has 
fashioned  of  her  body  and  soul  a  rare  instru- 
ment, giving  forth  the  lovely  music  of  attitude, 
gesture,  pose,  and  rhythm.  There  are  moments 
when  she  evokes  the  image  of  the  shadow  of  a 
humming-bird  on  a  star;  and  often  she  sounds 
the  shuddering  semitones  of  sex,  as  in  Thais. 
The  Melisande  moods  are  hers,  the  dim,  remote 
poesy  of  antique  sonorous  tapestries;  and  the 
"modern"  note  of  Louise,  grazing  the  vulgar, 
though  purified  by  passion.  But  the  dissenters 
no  doubt  believe  in  the  Cambodian  proverb 
when  estimating  the  singing  of  both  Geraldine 
Farrar  and  Mary  Garden.  It  runs  thus:  When 
in  hades  it  is  bad  form  to  speak  of  the  heat. 

Do  you  remember  the  night  when  Mary  Gar- 
den came  from  the  refectory  of  the  monastery 
in  Le  Jongleur,  and — oh,  the  winsome  little 
devil! — paused  on  the  stairway  to  remark  to 
her  audience:  "La  cuisine  est  tres  bonne"? 

The  accent  was  indescribable.  At  Paris  they 
admired  her  individual  French  streaked  with 
exotic  intonations.  That  night  it  revealed  the 
universal  accent  of  a  half-starved  lad  who  had 
just  filled  his  tummy;  a  real  "tuck-out."  The 
joy  of  life!  How  human  she  was!  It  is  the 
sartorial  technique  of  Miss  Garden  that  is  su- 
preme. Her  taste  in  costumes  is  impeccable. 
In  the  eternal  game  of  making  masculine  eyes 
misbehave,  she  is  quite  irresistible.  But  this 
19 


BEDOUINS 

orchidaceous  Circe,  this  uncommon  or  garden 
variety,  does  not  with  her  fatal  philtres  trans- 
form men  into  the  unmentionable  animal;  rather 
does  she  cause  them  to  scurry  after  their  vocab- 
ulary and  lift  up  their  voices  in  rhetorical  praise. 
And  that  is  something  to  have  accomplished. 
Did  you  ever  read  Casuals  of  the  Sea,  by 
William  McFee,  a  fiction  I  had  the  honor  to 
introduce  to  the  American  reading  public?  On 
page  443  there  occurs  at  the  chapter  end  the 
following  dialogue:  "Mother!"  "Yes,  Min- 
nie." "Mother,  I  was  just  thinking  what  fools 
men  are !  What  utter  fools !  But  oh,  mother, 
dear  mother,  what  fools  we  are,  not  to  find  it 
out — sooner ! "  Minnie  had  seen  a  bit  of  life  on 
the  Continent;  she  was  then  snug  in  the  land- 
locked harbor  of  stagnant  matrimonial  waters. 
But  she  understood  men.  Miss  Garden  is  a 
profounder  philosopher  than  Minnie  Briscoe. 
She  knew  her  public  "  sooner,"  and  the  result  is 
— Mary  Garden.  Qui  a  bu,  boira ! 

I  have  been  asked  whether  Miss  Garden  be- 
lieves that  she  is  the  wonderful  artiste  I  believe 
her  to  be.  I  really  don't  know.  But  I  feel 
assured  that  if  she  discovers  she  does  not  measure 
up  to  all  the  qualities  ascribed  to  her  she  will 
promptly  develop  them;  such  is  the  plastic, 
involutionary  force  of  this  extraordinary  woman. 


20 


Ill 

THE  BABY,  THE  CRITIC,  AND 
THE  GUITAR 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  that  blunt  literary  critic 
who  always  called  a  cat  a  cat,  wrote  a  study  of 
Charles  Baudelaire  in  an  English  magazine  at 
least  forty  years  ago.  It  practically  introduced 
the  poet  to  English  readers,  although  Swin- 
burne had  imported  no  little  of  the  "poisonous 
honey  from  France"  in  Laus  Veneris.  Prof. 
Saintsbury  told  of  a  friend  to  whom  he  had 
shown  the  etching  of  Francois  Flameng  after 
Herrera's  The  Baby  and  the  Guitar.  "So," 
said  the  friend,  "you  like  this  picture.  I  al- 
ways thought  you  hated  babies !"  The  remark 
is  a  classic  example  of  that  sin  against  the 
holy  ghost  of  criticism,  the  confusion  of  two 
widely  varying  intellectual  substances;  a  mixing 
up  of  the  babies  with  a  vengeance.  The  anec- 
dote may  serve  to  point  a  moral  if  not  to 
adorn  my  sermon. 

The  operatic  undertow  of  the  past  season 
cast  up  strange  flotsam  and  jetsam  and  dere- 
licts, usually  in  the  shape  of  letters.  Letters 
signed  and  unsigned.  Two  I  select  as  illustrat- 
ing the  Baby  and  the  Guitar  crux.  I  stand  for 
the  Baby  and  two  celebrated  singing  girls  repre- 
21 


BEDOUINS 

sent  the  Guitar.  Both  letters  are  unsigned,  both 
reveal  a  woman's  handwriting,  though  different 
women.  The  first  roundly  accuses  the  dignified 
author  of  being  madly  in  love  with  Mary  Gar- 
den; the  second  wonders  why  I  worship  Mar- 
garet Matzenauer.  Now,  the  venerable  age  of 
the  present  alleged  and  versatile  "great  lover" 
—Leo  Ditrichstein  should  look  to  his  laurels ! — 
might  serve  as  an  implicit  denial  of  these  charges, 
were  it  not  the  fact  that  there  are  hoary-headed 
sinners  abroad  seeking  whom  they  may  devour. 
If  I  were  a  young  chap  I  should  pay  no  atten- 
tion, but  being  as  old  as  I  am  I  proudly  confess 
my  crimes,  merely  pausing  to  ask,  who  isn't  in 
love  with  Mary  Garden  and  Margaret  Matze- 
nauer? Their  audiences,  to  an  unprejudiced 
eye,  seem  to  be  very  much  so,  men,  women,  and 
children  alike.  Why  not  that  worm-of-all-work, 
the  music-critic?  We,  too,  have  feelings  like 
any  other  humans.  But  worse  follows.  A  sym- 
pathetic singer  sent  me  a  telegram  which  read 
thus:  "Why  doesn't  your  wife  put  you  behind 
bars?"  to  which  I  promptly  replied,  Celtic 
fashion,  by  asking  another  question:  "Which 
one?"  meaning,  of  course,  which  bar.  Here  is 
a  concrete  case  of  the  Baby  and  the  Guitar 
muddle.  One  can't  praise  the  art  of  Mary 
Garden  without  loving  the  woman !  One  can't 
admire  the  opulent  voice  of  Margaret  Matze- 
nauer without  being  dragged  a  hopeless  slave  at 
her  triumphant  chariot  wheels;  a  critic  butchered 
to  make  a  prima  donna's  holiday !  Absurd ! 

22 


MARY  GARDEN 

And  there  are  others.  What  of  radiant  Ger- 
aldine  with  the  starry  eyes?  What  of  Frieda 
Hempel,  exquisite  Violetta,  delicious  Countess 
in  the  Rose-Cavalier?  And  what  of  Olive 
Fremstad,  always  beautiful,  an  Isolde  whose 
tenderness  is  without  peer,  a  Sieglinde  who 
plucks  at  your  heartstrings  because  of  her  pity- 
breeding  loveliness,  or  as  that  dazzling  witch, 
Kundry;  and  to  whose  beauty  the  years  have 
lent  a  tragic,  expressive  mask?  There  were 
queens,  too,  before  Agamemnon's.  Lilli  Leh- 
mann,  Emma  Eames,  Lillian  Nordica,  Emma 
Calve — did  we  not  burn  incense  under  the  nos- 
trils of  those  beautiful  women  and  great  artists? 
Go  to!  Nor  was  our  praise  accorded  only  to 
the  girls  of  yesteryear.  The  De  Reszkes,  Vic- 
tor Maurel,  Max  Alvary — as  perfect  a  type  of 
the  matinee  idol  as  Harry  Montague  or  Charles 
Coghlan — the  stately,  if  slightly  frigid,  Pol  Plan- 
£on — upon  them  we  showered  our  warmest  en- 
thusiasms. And  Ignace  Jan  Paderewski,  once 
Premier  Opus  I  of  Poland — was  he  neglected? 
The  piano  god  par  excellence.  No,  such  gener- 
alizations are  unfair.  The  average  music-critic 
or  dramatic  critic  is  nothing  if  not  versatile  in 
his  tastes.  Remember  that  either  one  has  op- 
portunities to  see  and  hear  the  most  comely  faces 
and  sweetest  voices.  Nevertheless  I  know  of 
none  who  ever  lost  his  head.  We  play  no  favor- 
ites. I  also  admit  that  this  apologetic  tone  is  the 
kind  of  excuse  that  is  accusatory.  But ! 

But  there  is  another  name  which  slipped  the 
23 


BEDOUINS 

memory  of  my  faultfinders.  What  of  Rosina 
Galli,  whose  pedal  technique  is  as  perfect  as  the 
vocal  technique  of  Miss  Hempel;  whose  mimique 
is  as  wonderful  in  its  way  as  are  the  hieratic  atti- 
tudes and  patibulary  gestures  of  Mary,  the 
celebrated  serpent  of  Old  Nile?  Don't  we,  to 
a  man,  adore  Rosina  ?  Thunderous  affirmations 
assail  the  welkin !  And  then  there  is  the  "  poet's 
secret,"  as  Bernard  Shaw,  the  "Uncle  Gurne- 
manz"  of  British  politics,  has  it.  The  secret  in 
question  is  as  simple  as  Polchinelle's.  Do  you 
realize  that  to  a  writer  interested  in  his  art  such 
women  as  Mary  Garden  or  Margaret  Matze- 
nauer  serve  as  a  peg  for  his  polyphonic  prose  or 
as  models  upon  which  to  drape  his  cloth-of-silver 
when  writing  of  Geraldine  Farrar?  A  suscepti- 
ble critic  may  perforce  sigh  like  a  symphonic 
furnace,  but  apart  from  such  fatuities  he  can't 
keep  up  the  excitement  without  a  lot  of  emotional 
stoking.  And  coal  is  so  costly  this  year.  That 
alone  negates  the  assertion  of  undue  sentimen- 
tality. Pooh!  I  shouldn't  give  a  hang  for  a 
critic  so  cold  that  he  couldn't  write  overheated 
prose,  Byzantine  prose,  purple-patched  and 
swaggeringly  rhythmed,  when  facing  these 
golden  girls.  "Passionate  press  agents,"  indeed, 
but  in  the  strict  sense  intended  when  Philip  Hale 
struck  off  that  memorial  phrase.  There  is  Pitts 
Sanborn  with  his  "lithe  moon-blonde  wonderful 
Mary,"  which  I  envy  him;  after  my  spilth  of 
adjectives  he  limns  in  five  words  the  garden- 
goddess,  Themes,  those  singers,  for  gorgeous 
24 


From  a  photograph  by  De  Strelecki 

ROSINA  GALLI 


MARY  GARDEN 

vocables;  nothing  more.  Footlight-prose  quickly 
forgotten  if  you  take  from  the  shelf  in  your 
library  the  beloved  essays  of  Cardinal  Newman 
and  swim  in  the  cool  currents  of  his  silvery  style. 
A  panacea  for  the  strained,  morbid,  fantastic 
atmosphere  of  grand  opera. 

A  character  in  one  of  Goethe's  novels — Wil- 
helm  Meister? — exclaims:  "Five  minutes  more 
of  this  and  I  confess  everything ! "  Another  such 
season  of  overwrought  reportage  and  my  bag  of 
highly  colored  phrases,  all  my  trick  adjectives, 
would  be  exhausted,  else  gone  stale,  and  the 
same  gang  of  girls  ever  expecting  new  and  more 
miraculous  homage  in  four  languages  with  a 
brass  band  around  the  corner.  Oh !  la !  la ! 

There  was  one  critic  that  did  fall  in  love  with 
an  actress.  His  name  is  Hector  Berlioz,  and  he 
celebrated  the  charms  of  Henrietta  Smithson, 
English  born,  a  "guest"  at  a  Parisian  theatre, 
by  passionately  pounding  the  kettle-drums  in 
the  orchestra.  His  amatory  tattoo,  coupled  with 
his  flaming  locks,  finally  attracted  the  lady's 
attention,  and  after  she  broke  her  leg  and  was 
forced  to  abandon  the  stage  she  had  her  revenge 
—she  married  the  kettle-drum  critic  and  com- 
poser, and  lived  unhappily  ever  afterward.  Yet 
the  feeling  against  critics  persists,  probably 
prompted  by  envy.  In  a  Dublin  theatre  gallery 
a  fight  broke  out,  and  one  chap  was  getting  the 
worst  of  it.  His  more  powerful  adversary  was 
pushing  him  over  the  rail  into  the  orchestra, 
when  a  wag  called  out:  "Don't  waste  him.  Kill 
25 


BEDOUINS 

a  fiddler  with  him !"  Nowadays  he  would  say, 
"Kill  a  critic."  But  sufferance  is  the  badge 
of  our  tribe.  There  are  times  when  I  long  for 
the  unaffected  charm  of  Heller  rather  than 
Chopin;  when  I  prefer  to  gaze  at  Wagner's  Grane 
rather  than  hear  Brunhilde  sing. 

Mary  Garden  makes  herself  beautiful,  if  only 
by  thinking  "beautiful."  "Whatever  happens,  I 
must  be  an  emerald,"  said  Antoninus  of  the 
emerald's  morality.  Havelock  Ellis  asserts, 
"the  exquisite  things  of  life  are  to-day  as  rare 
and  as  precious  as  ever  they  were."  She  is  rare 
and  precious  in  Melisande,  Monna  Vanna,  Jean, 
and  other  roles.  And  what  imaginative  inten- 
sity is  hers !  But  I  don't  care  a  fig  for  the 
depraved  creatures  of  the  Lower  Empire  she  so 
marvellously  portrays.  It  is  Mary  with  the 
strain  of  mysticism,  the  woodland  fay  she  shows 
us,  its  nascent  soul  modulating  into  the  supreme 
suffering  and  sorrow  of  motherhood.  Her  bed 
of  death  in  Melisande  is  one  of  the  high  consola- 
tions in  the  memory  of  a  critic  whose  existence 
has  been  spent  in  the  quagmire  of  mediocrity. 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  mystics  there  are  many 
mansions,  and  Garden  lives  in  one — at  times. 

But  the  detraque  lemans  she  pictures  are 
often  repugnant.  The  decadent  art  of  Byzance. 
The  Infernal  Feminine.  A  vase  exquisitely 
carved  containing  corruption.  Sculptured  slime. 
You  close  your  eyes — but  open  your  fingers;  the 
temptation  to  peep  is  irresistible. 

In  his  illuminative  studies  of  Fremstad,  Far- 
26 


MARY  GARDEN 

rar,  Garden,  Mazarin,  Interpreters  and  Inter- 
pretations, Carl  Van  Vechten  says  that  to  Miss 
Garden  a  wig  is  the  all-important  thing.  "Once 
I  have  donned  the  wig  of  a  character,  I  am  that 
character.  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  go 
on  the  stage  in  my  own  hair."  However,  she 
did  so  in  Louise,  adds  the  critic.  Felix  Orman 
reports  that  when  he  asked  her  if  she  would  be 
content  to  give  up  singing  and  become  a  dra- 
matic artist,  she  replied:  "No.  I  need  the 
music.  I  depend  on  it.  Music  is  my  medium 
of  expression."  An  art  amphibian,  hybrid,  hers. 
The  flying  fish.  The  bird  that  swims.  The  du- 
bious trail  of  the  epicene  is  not  a  modern  note. 
Rome  and  Alexandria  knew  it.  It  is  vile,  soul- 
less, yet  fascinating.  Miss  Garden  incarnates  it 
as  no  other  modern  since  the  divine  Sarah.  She 
is  "cerebrale,"  and  a  cerebral  is  defined  by 
Arthur  Symons  as  one  who  feels  with  the  head 
and  thinks  with  the  heart.  Richard  Strauss  is 
a  prime  exemplar.  The  image  suggests  both 
apoplexy  and  angina  pectoris,  yet  it  serves.  She 
is  as  hard  as  steel  in  Louise  or  Cleopatre,  yet 
how  melting  as  Monna  and  Melisande.  She 
may  be  heartless  for  all  I  know,  and  that  is  in 
her  favor,  artistically  considered,  for  Steeplejack 
hath  enjoined:  A  cool  head  and  a  wicked  heart 
will  conquer  the  world;  also,  what  shall  it  profit 
a  woman  if  she  saves  her  soul  but  loseth  love? 
Cynical  Steeplejack  ?  Yet,  a  half-truth — though 
not  the  upper  half  of  that  shy  goddess,  Truth. 
As  for  Margaret  Matzenauer,  her  art  and  per- 
27 


BEDOUINS 

sonality  transport  the  imagination  to  more 
exotic  climes.  That  sombre  and  magnificent 
woman,  who  seems  to  have  stepped  from  a 
fresco  of  Hans  Makart,  himself  a  follower  of 
Paolo  Veronese,  is  a  singing  Caterina  Cornaro. 
She  brought  back  an  element  of  lyric  grandeur 
to  our  pale  operatic  life;  a  Judith,  a  Deborah, 
Boadicea,  Belkis,  Clytemnestra,  Dalila,  Amneris, 
or  Aholibah,  all  those  splendid  tragic  shapes  of 
the  antique  world,  she  evokes,  and  in  her  sing- 
ing there  is  a  largeness  of  dramatic  utterance 
that  proclaims  her  of  the  line  royal:  Lehmann, 
Brandt,  Ternina,  Fremstad,  Schumann-Heink. 
Is  it  at  all  remarkable  that  I  admire  Matzenauer  ? 
And  now  that  we  have  cleared  away  some 
cobwebs  of  misapprehension  with  the  aid  of  the 
Baby  and  the  Guitar,  let  me  relate  a  story  of 
Chateaubriand,  that  Eternal  Philanderer,  as  I 
once  named  him,  who  met  at  Rome  gay  Hor- 
tense  Allart,  afterward  Madame  Meritens.  The 
supreme  master  of  French  prose  regretfully  ex- 
claimed to  her:  "Ah,  if  I  had  back  my  fifty 
years."  Thereupon  the  sprightly  lady  replied: 
"Why  not  wish  for  twenty-five?"  "No," 
moodily  returned  the  Ambassador,  "fifty  will 
do."  Which  recalls  the  witty  design  of  Forain, 
representing  a  very  old  man  apostrophizing  the 
shadow  of  his  past:  "Oh,  if  I  only  had  again  my 
sixty-five  years!"  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
my  threescore  and  ten  if  only  to  tell  those  great 
ladies  of  opera  how  much  I  admire  them.  "Bar- 
kis is  willin'." 

28 


MARY  GARDEN 

Another  picture  and  I  shall  have  done.  Lis- 
ten. I,  many  years  ago,  visited  the  Fondation 
Ste.  Ferine  at  Auteuil,  an  institution  endowed  by 
the  Empress  Eugenie,  one  in  which  the  benevo- 
lence is  so  cloaked  as  not  to  hurt  the  sensibilities 
of  the  resident  superannuated  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen. The  company  boasted  noble  origins. 
Among  the  ladies  I  met  was  a  Polish-born  Mar- 
quise, with  brilliant  eyes  and  wonderful  white 
hair,  her  own.  She  had  studied  with  Chopin. 
She  said  he  was  fickle  and  that  George  Sand  was 
often  jealous  of  his  pupils.  For  me  she  sang  in 
a  sweet,  true,  but  quavering  voice  Chopin's 
Maiden's  Wish,  and  compelled  tears.  The 
Marquise  then  tinkled  with  a  still  small  tone  a 
Nocturne  by  Field  upon  a  pianoforte  whose 
ivory  keys  looked  as  if  they  exhaled  pearly 
sighs.  She  gently  coquetted  with  a  touch  of 
exquisite  Sarmatian  evasiveness.  For  me  she 
was  adorable,  although  if  she  had  laughed  her 
face  would  have  cracked  its  artistic  plastering. 
What  a  new  Diana  of  Poitiers !  What  wit,  fire, 
malice,  were  in  the  glance  of  her  soft,  faded  blue 
eyes !  What  a  magically  youthful  heart !  She 
must  have  been  more  than  fourscore. 

But  yet  a  woman. 


29 


IV 
INTERPRETER 

TO   MARY  GARDEN   AS   CLEOPATRA 
"C'estAffreuxMourir" 

"And  now  this  scorched  terrace  is  your  sole  domain, 
Your  only  subject  Roman,  dying  Anthony; 
The  outer  vastnesses  they  held,  the  soldiery 
Of  Caesar;  their  stout  captain  will  not  here  refrain. 

You  lived,  0  Queen,  but  not  to  countenance  that  pain 
Which  is  surrender  of  the  body's  sovereignty; 
You  take  your  part;  is  it  the  frightful  thing  to  die 
And  see  in  dying  just  the  realm  you  must  regain? 

You  have  not  let  the  game  play  you,  my  Queen,  but  fed 
The  aspic  at  a  famished  breast — the  rascal  fresh 
From  gluttony  a  glutton  still ! — Why,  the  hot  land 
Is  dim,  alone  lies  Anthony  save  for  the  dead — 
One  more  ambition,  Queen,  for  your  expiring  hand. 
The  last  adventure,  woman  of  imperious  flesh !" 

—Pitts  Sanborn. 

CLEOPATRA 

THOUGH  the  first  hearing  of  the  work  in  New 
York  was  during  the  winter  of  1919  at  the  Lex- 
ington Theatre,  and  sung  by  the  Chicago  Opera 
Association,  Cleofonte  Campanini,  director,  it 
had  been  presented  before  Chicago  audiences 
when  the  impersonation  of  the  supersubtle  ser- 
pent of  Old  Nile  by  Mary  Garden  caused  much 
30 


MARY  GARDEN 

comment,  critical  and  otherwise.  The  libretto 
states  that  the  conception  of  M.  Payen  radically 
differs  from  Shakespeare's  tragedy — a  rather 
superfluous  remark.  It  does  considerably  differ, 
the  principal  difference  being  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  great  poetry  as  well  as  great  drama. 

Payen's  attempt  resolves  itself  into  a  series  of 
tableaux,  the  characterization  generalized,  his 
verse  respectably  tepid.  In  a  word,  not  the 
Queen  that  Shakespeare  drew.  Of  this  Cleo- 
patre you  dare  not  say:  "Age  cannot  wither  her, 
nor  custom  stale  her  infinite  variety."  She  is 
more  germane  to  that  Queen  shown  us  in  the 
sumptuous  prose  of  Theophile  Gautier's  Une 
Nuit  de  Cleopatre  than  the  imperial  courtesan 
who  turned  the  head  of  Anthony  and  stirred  the 
pulse  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  supreme  tune  of 
Shakespeare's  music. 

There  is  plenty  of  action,  some  picturesque 
episodes,  and  at  least  one  brutal  scene.  Of  love 
and  the  talk  of  love  there  is  no  end.  Yet  it  is 
not  all  convincing.  Moving  pictures.  You 
think  of  Gerome,  of  Le  Nouy,  of  the  hundred 
and  one  painters  who  have  celebrated  on  can- 
vas this  seductive  creature  of  old  Egypt.  "For 
her  own  person,  it  beggar 'd  all  description;  she 
did  lie  in  her  pavilion,  cloth-of-gold  of  tissue, 
o'er-picturing  that  Venus  where  we  see  the 
fancy  out-work  nature." 

Cleopatre  is  Massenet  and  the  modiste. 
Brackish-sweet,  it  is  the  ultimate  expression 
of  musical  impotence.  Clever  craftsman  Masse- 


BEDOUINS 

het  could  turn  out  martial  music  and  amorous, 
the  clangor  of  trumpets  and  voluptuous,  dizzy 
dance  measures.  But  here  it  is  generally  bosh. 
Languid,  enervating,  it  attained  a  feeble  climax 
in  the  ballet  of  the  penultimate  act.  Ambigu- 
ous shapes  and  attitudes  crowded  the  scene. 
Two  dancers  slipped  and  fell,  but  the  recovery 
was  so  swift  that  the  tumbled  ensemble  seemed 
a  veritable  climax.  Cleopatre  cynically  regarded 
this  daring  symbolism,  though  Marc-Antoine 
seemed  rather  shocked.  And  he  should  have 
been.  Musically  speaking,  nothing  happened  in 
Act  I;  less  followed  in  Act  II,  while  Act  III  was 
a  glittering  triumph  of  vacuity.  In  the  last  act 
the  asp  played  protagonist.  As  its  name  did 
not  figure  on  the  programme,  it  probably  died 
from  envy,  or  else  inanition,  doubtless  humming 
Will  Shakespeare's  mournful  lay:  "I  am  dying, 
Egypt,  dying."  You  also  recall  Swinburne's: 
"Under  those  low,  large  lids  of  hers  She  hath 
the  histories  of  all  times.  .  .  ." 

But  the  Cleopatre !  A  youthful  Sphinx,  her 
entrance  on  the  great  burnished  barge  was  an 
evocation.  As  she  faced  Antoine  so  must  have 
looked  Sheba's  Queen  before  the  majesty  of  Sol- 
omon. It  would  have  been  trying  on  the  nerves 
of  the  most  pudic  potentate  from  Herod  down. 
A  saucy  lad,  in  a  later  scene,  Cleopatre  got  in  a 
mix-up  at  an  early-Egyptian  boozing-ken.  An 
extraordinary  apparition,  a  fantastic  faun  of 
Aubrey  Beardsley  caught  the  roving  riggish  eye 
of  the  disguised  Queen.  She  encouraged  the 
32 


MARY  GARDEN 

advances  of  the  anonymous  animal.  An  Adonis 
a  rebours.  Pavley  was  this  delicate  monster 
and  his  subtle  rhythms  made  Cleopatre  shiver. 
Here  the  music  was  too  prudish. 

Stravinsky  or  Richard  Strauss  would  have 
given  the  screw  an  enharmonic  wrench.  Act  III 
saw  the  Queen  attired  at  once  so  sonorously  and 
exquisitely  that  the  vast  audience  gasped  with 
admiration.  It  is,  however,  the  tavern  scene 
that  will  save  the  tawdry  work.  The  anatomi- 
cal wigwagging  of  the  two  golden  lads  set  the 
lobby  buzzing.  Cleopatre  is  doomed  to  packed 
houses  in  the  future.  Nothing  succeeds  like 
true  spirituality. 

Mary  Garden  is  Cleopatre,  as  she  is  Melisande 
and  Thais.  It  is  not  a  role  that  taxes  her  drama- 
tic resources  or  her  personal  pulchritude.  All 
she  did  was  to  look  beautiful  and  turn  on  the  full 
voltage  of  her  blandishments.  Men  went  to  the 
ground  before  that  dynamic  yet  veiled  glance,  like 
soldiers  facing  a  machine-gun.  It  is  uncanny, 
the  emotion  she  projects  across  the  footlights 
and  with  such  simple  but  cerebral  means. 

That  she  would  have  been  burned  at  the 
stake  a  few  centuries  ago,  this  lovely  witch,  is 
no  conjecture.  Her  nose  is  not  "tip-tilted  like 
the  petal  of  a  flower,"  as  Cleopatre's  is  said  to 
have  been;  nevertheless,  she  is  the  tawny  Egyp- 
tian. And  she  has  never  spoken  so  eloquently 
as  in  this  parlando  part.  Perhaps  the  most 
poignant  criticism  was  carelessly  uttered  by  a 
big  policeman  who  had  strayed  in  during  the 
33 


BEDOUINS 

garden  scene.  "Some  Queen!"  he  said.  And 
the  definitive  words  had  been  spoken.  Fie  on 
naughty  professional  opinion  after  that  memo- 
rial phrase ! 

M£LISANDE 

Once  upon  a  time  we  called  this  "precious" 
lyric  work  Wagner  and  Absinthe,  for  there 
are  many  rumors  of  Tristan  and  Isolde  in  it, 
and  the  opalescent  music,  drugged  with  dreams, 
has  the  numbing  effect  of  that  "green  fairy" 
no  longer  permitted  in  la  belle  France.  Like  all 
epigrams,  this  is  only  a  half-truth.  In  the  Bel- 
gian poet's  The  Death  of  Tintagiles — so  wonder- 
fully interpreted  in  tone  by  Charles  Martin 
Loeffler — his  marionettes  are  beginning  to  mod- 
ulate into  flesh  and  blood,  and,  like  the  mermaid 
of  the  fairy  story,  the  transformation  is  a  pain- 
ful one.  We  note  the  achievement  of  a  new 
manner  in  Pelleas  and  Melisande.  Played  in 
English  first  by  Forbes-Robertson  and  Mrs. 
Patrick  Campbell,  the  piece  created  a  mixed 
impression  in  London,  though  it  may  be  con- 
fessed that,  despite  the  scenic  splendor,  the  act- 
ing transposed  to  a  lower  realistic  key  this 
lovely  drama  of  souls.  No  play  of  Maeterlinck's 
is  so  saturated  with  poesy,  replete  with  romance. 
There  are  episodes  almost  as  intense  as  the 
second  act  of  Tristan.  We  listen  for  King 
Mark's  distant,  tremulous  hunting-horns  in  the 
forest  scene  when  Pell6as  and  Melisande  un- 
cover their  hearts. 

34 


From  a  photograph  copyrighted  by  Davis  and  Eickemeyer 

MARY  GARDEN  AS  MELISANDE 


MARY  GARDEN 

The  second  act  begins  at  an  immemorial 
fountain  in  the  royal  park.  Here  the  young 
Prince  sits  with  the  wife  of  his  brother.  Meli- 
sande  is  the  most  convincing  full-length  portrait 
of  the  poet.  Exquisitely  girlish,  she  charms 
with  her  strange  Undine  airs.  Melisande  is  en- 
veloped in  the  haze  of  the  romantically  remote. 
At  times  she  seems  to  melt  into  the  green  tapes- 
try of  the  forest.  She  is  a  woodland  creature. 
More  melancholy  than  Miranda,  she  is  not 
without  traces  of  her  high-bred  temperament; 
less  real  than  Juliet,  she  is  also  passion-smitten. 
You  recall  Melusina  and  Rautendelein.  Not 
altogether  comprehensible,  Melisande  piques  us 
by  her  waywardness,  her  fascinating  if  infan- 
tile change  of  moods.  At  the  spring  the  two 
converse  of  the  water  and  its  healing  powers. 
"You  would  say  that  my  hands  were  sick  to- 
day/' she  murmurs  as  she  dips  her  fingers  into 
the  pool.  The  dialogue  is  as  elliptical  as  if 
written  by  Browning  or  Henry  James.  But  the 
symbol  floats  like  a  flag. 

The  mad  apostrophe  to  the  hair  of  Melisande 
is  in  key  with  this  moving  tableau.  Perhaps 
Maeterlinck  took  a  hint  from  the  mournful  tale 
of  his  friend,  the  Belgian  poet  Georges  Roden- 
bach  (Bruges-la-Morte),  with  its  reincarnation 
of  a  dead  woman  in  the  form  and  features  of  a 
live  one.  The  beautiful  hair  of  the  new  love 
serves  but  to  strangle  her.  Pelleas  is  more 
tender. 

"I  have  never,  never  seen  such  hair  as  thine, 
35 


BEDOUINS 

Melisande.  I  see  the  sky  no  longer  through 
thy  locks.  .  .  .  They  are  alive  like  birds  in 
my  hands."  The  last  scene,  as  Melisande 
dies  of  a  broken  heart,  even  when  read  on  the 
printed  page,  is  pity-breeding.  It  is  the  tragedy 
of  souls  distraught.  "She  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed," urges  the  venerable  Arkel.  "The 
human  soul  is  very  silent.  .  .  .  The  human 
soul  likes  to  depart  alone.  ...  It  suffers  so 
timorously.  .  .  .  But  the  sadness,  Golaud,  the 
sadness  of  all  we  see.  .  .  .  JTwas  a  little  being 
so  quiet,  so  fearful,  and  so  silent.  'Twas  a  poor 
little  mysterious  being  like  everybody."  Pascal 
comes  to  the  mind  here.  No  matter  the  splen- 
dor of  human  lives,  we  must  die  alone. 

The  speech  of  the  poet  in  its  rhapsodic  rush 
merges  into  Debussy's  music.  That  we  shall 
ever  see  another  such  ensemble  as  at  the  Man- 
hattan Opera  House  years  ago  is  doubtful. 
Mary  Garden  is  Melisande.  No  further  praise 
is  needful.  All  her  trumpery  roles,  Thais,  Gis- 
monda,  Cleopatre,  with  their  insincere  music 
and  pasteboard  pathos,  are  quickly  dismissed. 
Her  Melisande  is  unforgettable. 

MONNA  VANNA 

.This  opera  was  first  heard  here  on  February 
17,  1914,  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
with  Mary  Garden,  Vanni  Marcoux,  and  Huber- 
deau.  It  had  been  produced  by  the  Boston 
Opera  Company  in  December,  1913,  and  by  the 

36 


MARY  GARDEN 

present  organization  January  23,  1918.  Miss 
Garden  was  the  heroine  on  that  occasion,  and 
was  greeted  with  overwhelming  applause.  The 
premiere  of  the  play  Monna  Vanna  occurred  at 
the  Nouveau  Theatre,  Paris,  May  17,  1902. 
We  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  it  a  week  later. 
Georgette  Leblanc  was  the  original  Monna. 
Jean  Froment,  Darmont,  and  Lugne  Poe  were 
the  other  principals.  The  drama  enjoyed  an 
immediate  success  all  over  Europe  from  Bergen 
to  Palermo.  London  alone  stood  firm  against 
its  blandishments.  The  censor  forbade  a  pro- 
duction. New  York  first  saw  it  in  English  with 
Bertha  Kalich  at  the  old  Standard  Theatre, 
Harrison  Gray  Fiske,  manager. 

As  a  play  it  was  a  new  departure  for  Maeter- 
linck. It  is  almost  theatric.  In  the  heyday  of 
his  glory  Sardou  never  devised  anything  more 
arresting  than  the  denouement — setting  aside 
consideration  of  the  psychologic  imbroglio. 
There  are  spots  in  the  dramatic  scheme  which 
tax  the  credulity.  However,  something  of  the 
improbable  must  always  be  granted  a  play- 
wright, be  he  never  so  logical.  The  rapid 
mental  change  of  Vanna  hints  at  a  native-born 
casuist,  an  Italian  Renaissance  type  of  mind. 
Her  love  of  Colonna  could  not  have  been  deep- 
rooted.  But  she  did  not  betray  him  in  the 
tent,  and  yet  she  has  been  adjudged  profoundly 
immoral;  in  a  word,  not  to  put  an  edge  too  fine 
upon  the  sophistries  of  the  situation,  this  heroine 
committed  an  imaginative  infidelity  as  well  as 
37 


BEDOUINS 

uttering  a  splendid  falsehood.  The  madness  of 
the  finale  is  the  logical  outcome  of  her  passion 
for  Prinzevalle.  All  that  has  gone  before  in  her 
life  had  been  a  bad  dream.  The  true,  the  beau- 
tiful moment  is  at  hand.  It  will  be  both  her 
revenge  and  justification. 

She  goes  to  Prinzevalle  in  his  cell.  "This 
must  end  here;  it  is  too  perfect.  ...  It  is  one 
blaze  about  me  and  within  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  some 
death  will  run  its  sudden  ringer  round  this  spark 
and  sever  us  from  the  rest!"  Thus  Browning 
sings  In  a  Balcony. 

The  play's  the  thing !  though  it  did  not  seem 
to  catch  the  conscience  of  the  composer.  Nev- 
ertheless, Monna  Vanna  is  more  grateful  to  our 
ears  than  Gismonda.  There  are  too  many 
"things"  that  are  set  to  music  in  the  Sardou 
libretto,  while  Maeterlinck  deals  only  with  the 
primal  passions — love,  jealousy,  hatred,  con- 
flict of  wills.  There  is  more  unity  in  action  and 
mood  in  the  older  score.  The  music  is  Wag- 
nerian'irom  first  to  final  curtain,  but  it  is  cleverly 
assimilated  and  swifter,  more  poignant.  The 
introduction  to  the  third  act  recalls  the  third 
act  of  Valkyrs;  so  we  were  not  surprised  to  find 
Brunhilde  pleading,  or  to  hear  the  chorus  shrilly 
cry  out  the  Valkyr  theme.  In  the  tent  scene, 
Tristan  and  Isolde  reign,  as  might  be  expected. 
The  first  act  has  been  cut  and  to  its  advantage. 

At  our  first  view  of  Mary  Garden  as  the  medi- 
aeval Judith  who  fetches  to  Pisa  her  beloved 
Holofernes,  we  frankly  confess  that  the  impres- 

38 


prom  a  photograph  copyrighted  by  Mishkin 

MARY  GARDEN  AS  MONNA  VANNA 


MARY  GARDEN 

sions  of  her  interpretation  were  strong.  Monna 
Vanna  will  rank  in  her  portrait-gallery  among 
the  finest.  It  far  outshines  Gismonda,  as 
Monna  herself  outshines  the  incredible,  erotic 
Duchess  of  Athens.  There  was  no  attempt  to 
make  a  disrobing  scandal  in  the  tent  scene, 
which  would  be  obviously  theatrical  flimflam. 
Miss  Garden  disposed  of  the  situation  simply. 
She  did  not  appear  half-nude,  but  clothed  in 
exquisitely- toned  draperies.  But  if  she  did  not 
show  her  lovely  person,  she  spilled  for  us  the 
soul  of  the  heroine  who  saved  her  country  and 
lost  her  reputation.  In  the  opening  act  she  did 
little,  but  suggested  the  psychology  of  a  woman 
who  had  begun  to  loathe  a  supine  husband. 
Note  the  nuance  with  which  she  uttered  "  J'rai, 
mon  pere,"  and  the  repetition  when  she  says  it 
to  Colonna.  It  was  like  molten  steel  at  first; 
it  was  cold,  rigid  steel,  the  steel  of  unalterable 
resolution  the  second  time.  Yet  how  tender  is 
her  "Si"  when  she  turns  to  her  fuming  spouse. 
There  was  tenderness  in  the  tent  scene,  yes, 
true  tenderness,  not  expressed  by  the  senti- 
mental symbols  of  the  English  theatre,  but  in 
the  restrained  terms  of  the  French  tradition; 
therefore,  more  eloquent,  more  artistic,  despair 
and  pride  modulating  into  amazed  joyfulness  at 
meeting  her  early  friend,  stern  Prinzevalle. 
But  the  last  scene  gave  us  the  most  moving  side 
of  this  wonderful  woman's  art.  The  shock  of 
incredulity  caused  by  her  husband's  suspicions, 
merging  into  the  supreme  ecstasy  as  she  grasps 
39 


BEDOUINS 

\ 

the  key  that  is  to  unlock  the  future — in  sooth; 
no  such  acting  has  been  witnessed  for  a  long 
time.  The  scale  was  essentially  smaller  than 
Bernhardt's,  but  as  subtle  as  the  art  of  Sarah 
were  the  indications  of  love  triumphant  with 
death  staring  her  in  the  face.  The  tiny  play  of 
shadows  round  her  eyes  and  mouth  as  she  sees 
her  lover  trapped  were  touching.  That  she  was 
a  picture  in  every  act  is  a  matter  of  course.  Her 
slow  steps  to  the  open  door  most  impressive. 
It  was  a  veritable  march  to  the  scaffold.  Fev- 
rier's  music  in  this  last  episode  rings  true. 


GISMONDA 

Of  Mary  Garden  it  is  always  the  correct  thing 
to  say  that  she  is  charming.  True.  Charming, 
and  also  many  other  qualities  she  boasts.  She 
is  exquisite,  and  she  is  sometimes  a  great  dra- 
matic artist.  But  her  voice  is  a  sonorous 
mirage.  The  lower  register  is  still  rich,  sombre 
in  coloring,  thrilling  when  she  wills.  The  gift 
of  temperamental  ecstasy  is  hers,  though  the 
character  she  paints  so  subtly  is  hardly  worth 
the  powder  and  shot  to  blow  it  sky-high.  A 
sensual  prowling  panther,  notwithstanding  the 
al  fresco  exhibition  of  mother-love  in  Act  I. 

The  panther  glides  from  its  midnight  jungle 
to  meet  its  mate,  and  then  Miss  Garden's  magic 
begins  to  operate.  Her  soliloquy  is  the  finest 
bit  of  psychology  expressed  in  voice,  mimique, 
and  with  the  entire  arsenal  of  her  personal 
40 


MARY  GARDEN 

beauty  that  we  have  seen  on  any  stage,  dramatic 
or  lyric,  for  years.  She  needs  an  intimate  atmos- 
phere. Her  diction,  her  phrasing,  her  general 
grasp  of  the  r61e  are  most  impressive.  She  has 
distinction  in  every  pose,  distinction  in  the  car- 
riage of  her  head  and  arch  of  the  neck. 

Her  cadenced  step  in  the  first  scene  is  replaced 
by  rhythmic  movements  in  the  second  act  that 
reveal  her  glowing  inner  life.  She  is  all  flame 
and  gold — except  when  she  sings  above  the 
staff.  Even  then  she  infuses  it  with  a  charac- 
teristic timbre.  A  singing-actress.  People  like 
Mary  Garden  because  she  has  that  rarest  of 
artistic  virtues — personality. 


THAIS 

During  the  first  week  of  last  season's  Chicago 
opera  the  temperament  of  Mary  Garden  was 
carefully  chained  in  its  cage;  nevertheless,  we 
overheard  its  growls  in  Gismonda,  but  the  mock- 
Fafner  at  the  bottom  of  the  cistern  outroared 
Miss  Garden's  tame  panther.  In  Monna  Vanna 
there  were  whimperings  and  menacing  claws. 
The  feline  had  no  chance  to  spring,  not  even  in 
the  tent  scene.  At  a  matinee  in  the  Lexington 
Theatre  Thais  was  sung  by  the  Chicago  Opera 
Association,  and  now  or  never !  we  said,  the  tem- 
perament so  artistically  expressed,  rather  canal- 
ized and  exquisitely  distributed,  in  the  two  other 
operas,  will  leap.  It  did.  In  the  palace  of  Thais 
the  panther  appeared  for  a  few  moments — and 


BEDOUINS 

it  as'sumed  the  form  of  hysteria.  The  famous 
courtesan  of  Alexandria  experienced  a  true  "  con- 
version," the  physical  manifestations  of  which 
were  well-nigh  pathological.  "You  have  cre- 
ated a  new  shudder,"  wrote  Victor  Hugo  to 
Charles  Baudelaire  after  the  production  of  his 
Flowers  of  Evil.  The  "nouveau  frisson"  of 
Miss  Garden  is  thrilling,  and  must  have  appalled 
the  well-meaning,  stupid  Athanael. 

This  singing-actress  does  not  widely  depart 
from  her  usual  interpretation,  except  that 
slight  perpetual  novelty  which  we  expect 
from  her.  Her  last  scene  is  beautiful  in  con- 
ception and  execution;  the  "spiritual"  flirtation 
on  the  mossy  bank  as  piously  piquant  as  ever. 
The  kiss  suggested  and  evaded  set  us  to  won- 
dering again  at  the  morose  monk.  In  the  early 
acts  Thais  is  too  restless.  The  firm  yet  plastic 
lines  of  the  character  are  thereby  disturbed. 
She  looked  lovelier  than  ever,  and  she  did  not 
sing  in  the  best  of  voice.  A  trying  week  was 
behind  her;  besides,  the  domesticated  panther 
must  have  tugged  hard  and  frequently  at  its 
leash. 

CARMEN 

I  attended  Miss  Garden's  reading  of  the 
score  for  my  first  time,  and  freely  admit  my 
mixed  feelings.  We  were  assured  by  perfectly 
honorable  lobbyists  that  the  last  season  the 
Garden  version  was  much  better,  more  temper- 
amental; and  one  who  had  overheard  her  in 
42 


MARY  GARDEN 

Paris  swore  that  she  was  a  seething  caldron  in 
Act  II.  Her  interpretation  seems  to  us  to  be 
"overpainted,"  to  employ  studio  argot.  Like 
the  canvas  in  Balzac's  Unknown  Masterpiece, 
there  is  little  left  of  the  original  design,  except 
perhaps  a  miraculously  painted  foot. 

There  were  bits  here  and  there  that  are  ad- 
mirable; the  slow  awakening  of  her  interest  in 
the  toreador  as  he  thunders  forth  that  supreme 
song  of  table  d'hotes.  We  see  some  delicate  and 
definitive  notations,  yet  it  is  lost  in  the  cloudy 
chaos  of  the  scene.  All  the  strong  theatrical 
points  are  deliberately  renounced;  the  first  tu- 
multuous entrance,  the  Habanera,  Seguidilla, 
and  the  duo  in  Act  II.  The  renunciation  sug- 
gests technical  heroism,  but  it  doesn't  help  us 
much  in  the  development  of  the  character. 

Her  Carmen  is  essentially  frigid.  And  it  is 
neither  sinister  nor  sensuous.  To  be  sure,  it  is 
different,  but  then  so  is  Hedda  Gabler  "differ- 
ent." We  went  to  see,  to  hear,  Carmen,  and 
Hedda — in  a  lyric  mood — was  more  often  adum- 
brated than  the  Merimee-Bizet  gypsy.  The  dis- 
turbing element  of  the  performance  was  the  un- 
deniable fact  that,  granted  her  idea  of  the  r61e, 
she  didn't  even  "get  it  across."  She  missed  fire 
in  Act  III,  in  the  card  episode  particularly. 
Nor  did  she  look  bewitching.  We  quite  under- 
stand her  avoidance  of  the  conventional  posing, 
hipping,  strutting,  and  inane  postures;  yet  there 
should  have  been  compensations.  (In  the  days 
of  Calve  the  criticism  was  "  Elle  se  hanche  trop.") 
43 


BEDOUINS 

These  were  slim,  not  her  singing,  nor  yet  the 
beautiful  shawl  that  might  have  been  designed 
by  Sorolla  y  Bastida.  The  famous  fan  we 
missed.  If  Mary  Garden  had  but  lavished  a 
tithe  of  her  blandishments  on  her  Don  Jose 
that  she  so  recklessly,  so  alluringly  bestowed 
upon  Marc-Antoine  Maguenat  in  Cleopatre,  we 
might  have  been  won  over  a  little  to  her  general 
conception.  This  Carmen  was  a  distinguished 
dame.  Lilli  Lehmann  alone  outshone  her  in 
aristocratic  Sevillian  courtesy.  But  Lilli  could 
sing.  And  Lilli  had  not  the  Aberdeen-cum 
Philadelphia-cum  Chicago-aim  Boston  complex 
of  Mary. 

We  have  since  learned  that  the  singer  was 
grievously  indisposed.  And  she  surely  missed 
the  Don  Jose  of  Dalmores  and  Muratore. 

And  on  this  rather  chilly  note  of  dissent  I  pre- 
fer to  end.  Of  Miss  Garden's  twenty  or  thirty 
other  r61es  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak.  Her 
Louise  and  Salome,  so  dissimilar,  yet  both  in- 
comparable, need  no  belated  praise.  She  is 
unique.  Thus  endeth  the  Book  of  Mary  the 
Garden. 


44 


V 

MELISANDE  AND  DEBUSSY 

GEORGE  MOORE  has  remarked  that  we  never 
speak  of  Shakespeare  or  Hugo  or  Flaubert  as 
the  authors  of  any  particular  work.  Simply  to 
utter  their  names  suffices.  I  give  the  illustra- 
tions haphazard.  Any  great  artist  will  do.  From 
Claude  Debussy  we  never  ask  of  what  he  is  the 
composer.  Pelleas  and  Melisande  is  his  monu- 
ment; rather,  Melisande  and  Pelleas;  as,  in  the 
case  of  Isolde  and  Tristan,  it  is  the  woman  who 
is  protagonist.  Is  it  because  in  creating  charac- 
ters of  our  mother's  sex  that  the  Eternal  Mascu- 
line is  projected  across  the  feminine  soul?  Or, 
is  woman  the  genuine,  the  aboriginal  force,  that 
we  unwittingly  obey,  all  the  while  calling  her 
"little  woman"?  (condescendingly,  of  course). 
Oh,  what  a  joke  of  almost  cosmical  proportions 
it  would  be  if  the  latter  supposition  be  the  truer 
one !  But  mere  male  mortals  may  always  con- 
sole themselves  with  the  ineluctable  fact  that  it 
is  man  who  has  endowed  woman  with  a  vital 
figure  in  the  arts.  He  has  created  Ophelia  and 
Gretchen,  Beatrice  and  Francesca,  the  Milo 
Venus,  the  Winged  Victory  and  Isolde,  Lady 
Macbeth  and  Emma  B ovary,  Carmen  and  Me*li- 
sande.  Honors,  then,  are  even.  Even  if  mod- 
45 


BEDOUINS 

els  existed  in  nature,  the  art  of  man  it  was  that 
shaped  them  and  breathed  life  into  their  clay. 
But  Melisande  is  the  protagonist  in  the  drama. 

The  music  to  Maurice  Maeterlinck's  strangely 
haunting  play  is  so  wedded  to  the  moods  and 
situations  that  as  absolute  music  it  is  unthink- 
able. And  these  moods  are  usually  "con  sor- 
dino." Despite  his  musicianship,  Debussy  is 
obviously  a  " literary"  composer;  his  brain  had 
first  to  be  excited  by  a  dramatic  situation,  a 
beautiful  bouquet  of  verse,  an  episode  in  fiction, 
or  the  contemplation  of  a  picture. 

Why  demand  if  the  initial  impulse  be  the 
Monna  Lisa  or  a  quatrain  by  Verlaine?  A 
composer  who  can  interpret  in  tone  the  recon- 
dite moods  of  Baudelaire,  Verlaine,  Mallarme,  or 
the  dramatic  prose-poem  of  Maeterlinck,  need 
not  have  been  daunted  by  criticism;  in  sooth,  it 
is  the  angle  of  critical  incidence  that  must  be 
shifted  to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  optique.  Pel- 
leas  and  Melisande  is  a  study  in  musical  decom- 
position; the  phrase  is  decomposed,  rhythms  are 
dislocated,  the  harmonic  structure  melts  and  re- 
solves itself  into  air.  His  themes  are  developed 
in  opposition  to  the  old  laws  of  musical  syntax. 
But  what  have  laws  in  common  with  genius? 
Once  assimilated,  they  may  be  broken  as  were 
broken  the  stone  tablets  by  the  mighty  icono- 
clast, Moses.  Besides,  every  law  has  its  holiday. 
In  the  Debussy  an  idiom  there  seems  to  be  no 
normal  sequence.  I  say  seems,  for  much  water 
has  gone  under  the  bridge  since  his  appearance, 


MfiLISANDE  AND  DEBUSSY 

and  compared  with  Schoenberg,  Stravinsky, 
Ornstein,  and  Prokofieff  he  is  a  conservative;  in 
another  decade  he  may  be  called  a  reactionary. 
Life  is  brief  and  art  is  swift. 

Our  ears  were  not  accustomed  to  his  novel 
progressions  and  the  forced  marriage  of  har- 
monies. His  tonalities  are  vague,  but  his  values 
just.  The  introduction  to  the  forest  scene  when 
Golaud  discovers  Melisande  is  of  an  acid  sweet- 
ness. Without  anxious  preoccupation  Debussy 
has  caught  the  exact  Maeterlinckian  note.  As 
it  is  impossible  to  divorce  music  and  text — De- 
bussy seems  to  be  Maeterlinck's  musical  other 
self — so  it  is  needless  to  dwell  upon  the  charac- 
teristic qualities  of  the  score.  It  is  like  some 
antique  and  lovely  tapestry  that  hypnotizes  the 
gaze.  It  has  the  dream-drugged  atmosphere  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe;  the  Poe  of  the  dark  tarn  of 
Auber,  of  Ligeia,  of  Ellenora,  of  Berenice,  and 
Helen,  those  frail  apparitions  from  claustral 
solitudes  and  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored 
Grass,  all  as  exotic  as  they  are  incorporeal.  It 
is  the  complete  envelopment  of  the  poem  by  an 
atmospheric  musical  haze  shot  through  with 
gleams  of  light  never  shown  before  on  land  or  sea. 

We  pardon  the  monotone  of  mood  and  music, 
the  occasional  muffled  cacophonies,  the  lack  of 
exterior  action,  and  the  absence  of  climaxes;  after 
so  long  waiting  for  a  passionate  outburst,  when 
it  does  come  it  is  overpowering  in  its  intensity. 
In  music  the  tact  of  omission  has  never  been 
pushed  so  far.  From  the  pianoforte  partition 
47 


BEDOUINS 

little  may  be  gleaned  of  its  poetic  fervor,  its 
reticences,  its  delicate  landscapes,  psychologic 
subtleties.  The  pattern  seldom  obtrudes,  as  the 
web  is  spun  "exceeding  fine."  The  orchestra- 
tion reveals  the  silver-greys  of  Claude  Monet 
and  the  fire-tipped  iridescence  of  Monticelli. 
His  musical  palette  proclaims  Debussy  a  sym- 
bolist, one  in  the  key  of  Verlaine,  who  loved 
nuance  for  its  own  sake  and  detested  flauntingly 
brilliant  hues.  "Pas  la  couleur,  rien  que  la 
nuance  .  .  .  et  tout  le  reste  est  litter  a  ture," 
sang  Paul  of  the  asymmetrical  jaws  and  supernal 
thirst. 

Debussy  is  the  most  interesting  of  contem- 
porary music-makers  and  the  most  subtle  com- 
poser for  the  pianoforte  since  Chopin.  His 
originality  is  not  profoundly  rooted  in  the  his- 
tory of  his  art,  but  his  individuality  is  indis- 
putable. He  is  a  musician  doubled  by  a  poet. 
He  is  almost  as  Gallic  as  Chopin  is  Polish.  De- 
bussy shows  race.  His  artistic  pedigree  stems 
from  a  grafting  of  old  French  composers  upon 
ultramodern  methods.  Wagner,  Chopin,  cer- 
tain aspects  of  Liszt,  and  Moussorgsky.  The 
visit  he  made  to  Russia  in  1879  had  important 
consequences.  He  read  the  manuscript  score 
of  Boris  at  Rome,  he  absorbed  Moussorgsky 
and  the  whole-tone  scale,  and  this  influence 
contributed  to  the  richness  and  complexity  of 
his  style.  Above  all,  he  is  a  stylist.  He  has 
Wagner  at  his  finger-tips,  and,  like  Charpentier, 
he  can't  keep  Tristan  out  of  his  music;  it  is  his 
48 


MfiLISANDE  AND  DEBUSSY 

King  Charles's  head.  Naturally  such  highly 
peptonized  aural  diet  is  not  nourishing.  Like 
the  poetry  and  prose-poems  of  Stephane  Mal- 
larme,  too  much  Debussy  becomes  trying  to  the 
nerves.  Schumann  has  spoken  of  the  singularly 
irritating  effect  of  muted  dissonances.  Pelleas 
is  nearly  all  muted.  The  mental  and  emotional 
concentration  involved  in  the  hearing  of  this 
music  fatigues  as  does  no  other  music;  not  even 
Tristan. 

The  range  of  ideas,  like  the  dynamic  range, 
is  limited.  Yet  there  is  magic  in  his  music, 
the  magic  of  evocation.  Not  to  describe,  but 
to  evoke,  in  effortless  imagery,  is  the  quintes- 
sence of  his  art.  He  is  a  painter  of  cameos  and 
aquarelles.  Never  does  he  carve  from  the  big 
block;  an  exquisite  miniaturist,  he  does  not 
handle  a  bold  brush,  nor  boast  the  epical  sweep 
of  his  predecessors;  Berlioz  for  one.  But  he  is 
more  intimate,  he  is  the  poet  of  crepuscular 
moods.  The  sadness  of  tender,  bruised  souls  is 
in  his  pages.  Of  virility  there  is  little  trace,  it 
is  music  of  the  distaff,  and  seldom  sounds  the 
masculine  ring  of  crossed  swords.  Chopin,  too, 
had  his  nocturnal  moments,  but  he  also  wrote 
the  A  flat  Polonaise,  with  its  heroic  defiance  of 
a  Poland  crushed  yet  never  conquered;  with  its 
motto:  "Jescze  Polska  nie  zginiela!" 

Long  before  his  death  this  French  master  was 

critically  ranged.    Lawrence  Oilman,  the  most 

sympathetic  of  his  commentators,  is  also  the 

fairest.    To  his  essays  I  go  for  delectation.    It 

49 


BEDOUINS 

would  be  rash  to  say  that  Debussy  had  achieved 
his  artistic  apogee;  he  may  have  had  surprises  in 
store,  but  it  is  safe  to  conclude  that  Pelleas  and 
Melisande  is  his  masterpiece,  that  the  dewy 
freshness  of  L'Apres  Midi  d'un  Faune  would 
never  have  been  recaptured.  The  symphonic 
suite,  Printemps,  the  Nocturnes,  La  Mer,  and 
Images,  at  once  reveal  the  strength  and  limita- 
tions of  Debussy,  who  was  not  a  builder  of  the 
" lofty  rhyme,"  though  he  is  a  creator  of  com- 
plex rhythms;  not  a  cerebral  composer — like 
Vincent  d'Indy,  for  example — but  an  emotional 
one;  not  a  master  of  linear  design,  but  a  colorist; 
a  poet,  not  an  architect.  His  vision  is  authen- 
tic. He  knew  that  the  core  of  reality  is  poetry; 
he  lived  not  at  the  circumference  but  the 
hub  of  things.  He  loathed  the  academic.  He 
is  the  antipodes  of  Saint-Saens.  He  gave  us  a 
novel  nuance  in  music,  as  did  Maeterlinck  in 
literature.  (Think  of  Interior  with  its  motive 
— again  Poe — the  fear  of  fear !)  Debussy  is  a 
composer  of  nuance,  of  half-hinted  murmurings 
of  "the  silent  thunder  afloat  in  the  leaves,"  of 
the  rutilant  faun  with  his  metaphysical  xeno- 
mania, of  music  overheard,  and  of  mirrored 
dreams.  Little  wonder  he  sought  to  interpret 
in  his  weaving  tones  Baudelaire  and  Verlaine, 
Mallarme  and  Maeterlinck.  He  was  affiliated 
to  that  choir  of  sensitive  and  unhappy  souls,  of 
which  Maurice  Maeterlinck  is  the  solitary  survi- 
vor. A  poet  himself,  Claude  Achille  Debussy, 
even  if  he  had  never  written  a  bar  of  music. 
So 


MfiLISANDE  AND   DEBUSSY 

One  summer  evening  in  1903  I  was  intro- 
duced to  him  at  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens.  Debussy  spoke  a  few  polite  words 
when  I  told  him  that  I  belonged  to  the  critical 
chain-gang.  He  had  written  much  musical 
criticism,  chiefly  memorable  for  its  unsympa- 
thetic attitude  toward  Schubert  and  Wagner, 
not  because  of  reasons  chauvinistic,  but  doubt- 
less the  result  of  a  natural  reaction  against  the 
principal  educative  forces  in  his  life.  At  least 
once  in  his  career  an  artist  curses  his  artistic 
progenitors.  Wagner  must  have  hated  Weber 
because  of  his  borrowings  from  him,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  Chopin  despised  Hummel;  internal 
evidence  may  be  collated  in  the  Pole's  wide  de- 
parture from  the  academic  patterns  of  Hum- 
mel's  passage-work.  However,  Debussy  never 
went  so  far  as  his  friend  Jean  Marnold,  who  in 
the  Mercure  de  France  concludes  a  comparative 
study  of  Pelleas  and  Tristan  in  these  words: 
"Le  pathos  de  Tristan  vient  trop  tard;  si  tard, 
qu'il  semble  aujourd'hui,  a  sa  place  adequate  en 
notre  Opera  toulousain."  Yet  if  Tristan  came 
so  late,  how  is  it  that  there  is  so  much  of  its 
music  in  Pelleas  ?  a  fact  that  Philip  Hale  doubts. 
There's  the  score.  Who  steals  my  idea  steals 
trash;  'tis  something,  nothing;  'twas  mine,  'tis 
his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands;  but  he 
that  filches  from  me  my  style  robs  me  of  that 
which  not  enriches  him  and  makes  me  poor 
indeed !  (This  is  reorchestrated  to  suit  the 
simile.)  Tristan  always  seems  to  be  waiting  in 


BEDOUINS 

the  wings  when  Pelleas  is  played,  awaiting  his  cue 
to  enter.  It  never  fails  to  be  given  by  Debussy. 
Later  I  asked  Maurice  Maeterlinck  his  opin- 
ion of  Debussy's  music  to  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 
It  was  an  imprudent  question,  for  Lucienne  Bre- 
val  had  captured  the  r61e  of  Melisande,  not 
Georgette  Leblanc.  Maeterlinck  is  a  polite 
man,  and  his  answer  was  guarded;  never- 
theless, his  dislike  of  the  music  pierced  his 
phrases.  To  him  it  was  evident  that  his  play 
needed  no  tonal  embellishment,  that  it  was 
more  poetic,  more  dramatic,  without  the  De- 
bussy frame.  He  is  quite  right.  And  yet  the 
spiritual  collaboration  of  poet  and  musician  is 
irresistible.  And  in  the  garden  of  the  gods 
there  is  only  one  Melisande.  Some  little  dramas, 
like  little  books,  have  their  destiny.  The  com- 
poser of  Pelleas  and  Melisande  suffered  from 
the  nostalgia  of  the  ideal,  suffered  from  home- 
sickness for  his  patrie  psychique,  the  land  of 
fantasy  and  evanescent  visions.  The  world  will 
not  willingly  forget  him. 


VI 
THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT' 

IT  was  twenty  minutes  to  Eternity  on  a  sunny 
morning  in  Gotham.  The  breakfast  room  was 
large,  airy,  and  the  view  of  upper  Manhattan 
from  the  various  windows  gave  one  a  joyous 
sense  of  our  quotidian  life,  its  variety  and  spa- 
ciousness. Central  Park,  a  square  of  dazzling 
emerald,  the  erect  golden  synagogue  on  the 
avenue,  the  silver  hubs  of  the  wheels  on  passing 
carriages  across  the  East  Drive,  were  pictures 
for  eyes  properly  attuned.  The  four  eyes,  how- 
ever, in  this  particular  apartment,  were  busily 
engaged  in  devouring,  not  the  dainty  breakfast 
spread  before  them — eyes  eat,  too — but  the 
morning  newspapers.  On  the  walls  were  framed 
photographs.  She  as  Juliet.  He  as  Tristan. 
She  as  Isolde.  He  as  Faust.  She,  Carmen. 
He,  Siegfried.  A  versatile  pair.  Theirs  had 
been  a  marriage  prompted  by  love.  A  mag- 
nificent, a  devastating  passion  had  amalgamated 
their  destinies — Paul  Bourget  would  have  said 
"sublimes."  They  still  loved  despite  the  poign- 
ant promiscuity  of  matrimony,  although  mar- 
ried nearly  a  year.  They  also  loved  others. 
And  in  the  morning  hours  they  hated  one  an- 
other with  the  holy  hatred  engendered  by  per- 
53 


BEDOUINS 

feet  sympathy.  And  they  were  so  consumedly 
happy  that  they  couldn't  stay  indoors  for  a  day. 
It  is  easy  to  love  fervidly;  it  is  hard  to  hate  in- 
telligently. On  one  point,  however,  this  won- 
derful soprano  and  glorious  tenor  were  united 
— they  despised  musical  criticism,  even  when  it 
was  unfavorable.  Banishing  Mildred,  the  pretty 
English  maid — she  was  too  pretty  about  six  in 
the  evening,  so  He  noticed — to  the  bedroom, 
they  read  the  newspapers  undisturbed.  They 
read  aloud,  and  occasionally  as  a  duet.  She 
freely  embroidered  her  commentaries.  He  em- 
bellished his  with  indignant  outbursts. 

"Dearest,  hear  this.  What  a  beautiful  notice 
from  Spoggs.  I  appreciate  it  all  the  more  be- 
cause he  was  once  epris  of  that  Garden  woman. 
I  honestly  believe  the  man  is  truly  in  love  with 
me."  "Pooh!  Sweetheart,  a  music-critic  has 
only  ink  and  ice- water  in  his  veins.  Spoggs  is 
in  love  with  his  hifalutin'  phrases.  All  the  rest 
is  cannonading  canaries.  If  he  saw  you  in  the 
right  key  he  would  never  speak  of  your  second- 
act  Isolde.  That's  just  where  you  fall  down,  dar- 
ling. Whereas  my  third-act  Tristan—  "Dear 
old  boy.  How  you  do  run  on.  Always  jeal- 
ous when  his  poor  little  wine  is  praised."  "I 
jealous  ?  Of — you ! "  Longa  pausa !  Suddenly 
she  exclaims:  "Oh,  you  poor  man!  Did  you 
read  what  he  said  of  your  make-up  last  night? 
I  hate  that  man  now.  He  is  so  unjust — to  you; 
though  he  does  admire  me.  Why,  what's  the 
54 


THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT 

matter,  baby?  Where  are  you  going?  Your 
coffee  is  cold — "  He  storms  out  of  the  room, 
stumbling  over  Mildred  on  her  knees  near  the 
door,  either  praying  or  polishing  the  keyhole 
with  her  lustrous  eyelashes.  Familiarity  may 
breed  contempt,  but  contiguity  breeds,  tout 
simple. 

It  really  happened.  In  this  instance  I  have 
transposed  the  key  to  opera.  The  true  story 
deals  with  a  well-known  actress  and  her  first 
husband,  also  her  leading  man.  Two  prima 
donnas  under  one  roof.  She  read  him  to  his 
death  with  unfavorable  criticisms.  I  know  of  a 
more  curious  case.  He  was  an  idealist  of  an 
idealism  so  lofty  that  he  often  stumbled  over 
the  stars,  enmeshed  himself  in  constellations 
and  took  the  sun  for  footstool.  Her  eyes,  young 
as  yesterday,  were  like  an  Irish  sea-green  moun- 
tain lake;  at  dusk,  a  sombre  pool,  profound  at 
dawn  as  a  sun-misted  emerald.  He  painted. 
She  sang.  He  painted  her  portrait.  Then  he 
painted  other  women's  portraits.  Each  por- 
trait he  painted  was  the  portrait  of  his  wife. 
She  was  beautiful.  At  first  society  was  amused, 
flattered,  and  finally  resented  the  unsought  com- 
pliment. Time  drove  the  enamored  couple 
asunder.  They  were  too  happy.  She  married 
again,  happily.  He  remarried.  I  saw  the  last 
portrait  he  had  painted  of  his  second  wife,  a 
lovely  creature.  As  in  a  pictorial  palimpsest 
the  features  of  his  first  wife  showed  in  the  new 
text;  the  expression  of  her  eyes  peeped  through 
55 


BEDOUINS 

the  other  woman's  eyes.  A  veritable  obsession 
this,  comparable  to  the  exquisite  and  melan- 
choly tale  of  Georges  Rodenbach  and  the  dear 
dead  woman  of  Bruges-la-Morte. 

What  is  the  artistic  temperament — so-called? 
Years  ago  I  wrote  to  great  lengths  of  "The 
Artist  and  His  Wife,"  quoting  ancient  saws  and 
modern  instances  to  fatten  my  argument  that 
artistic  people  are,  in  private  life,  very  much 
like  others;  if  anything,  more  human.  I  proved, 
by  a  string  of  names  beginning  with  the  Robert 
Brownings  and  the  Robert  Schumanns,  that 
artists  may  marry  or  mix  without  fear  of  sudden 
death,  cross  words,  bad  cookery,  rocky  behavior, 
or  diminution  of  their  artistic  powers.  "There 
are  no  women  of  genius,"  said  that  cross-patch 
celibate,  Edmond  de  Goncourt;  "the  only 
women  of  genius  are  men."  A  half-truth  and  a 
whole  lie.  Artistic  men  are  as  "catty"  as  the 
"cattiest"  women.  But  why  dwell  only  upon 
the  incompatibility  of  artists?  Doesn't  Mr. 
Worldly  Wiseman  sometimes  weary  of  his  stout 
spouse?  Why  does  the  iceman  in  the  adjacent 
alley  beat  the  skinny  mother  of  his  children? 
Or  why  does  a  woman  who  never  heard  of  Nora 
Helmer,  Hedda  Gabler,  or  Anna  Karenina  leave 
her  husband,  her  family,  not  for  the  love  of  a 
cheap  histrion,  but  because  she  thinks  she  can 
achieve  fame  as  a  "movie"  actress?  Is  it  not 
the  call  of  the  exotic,  the  far-away  and  unfamil- 
iar ?  A  woman  can't  live  alone  on  stone  without 
the  bread  of  life  at  intervals.  The  echoes  of 

56 


THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT 

wanderlust  are  heard  in  the  houses  of  bankers, 
tailors,  policemen,  politicians,  as  well  as  in  the 
studies  of  artists,  poets,  and  musicians. 

But  the  artist's  misdemeanors  get  into  print 
first.  The  news  is  published  early  and  often. 
A  beautiful  young  actress,  or  a  rising  young 
portrait-painter,  a  gifted  composer,  talented 
sculptor,  rare  poet,  brilliant  pianist,  versatile 
writer — when  one  of  these  strays  across  the  bar- 
rier into  debatable  territory,  the  watchmen  on 
the  moral  towers  lustily  beat  their  warning 
gongs.  It  is  prime  matter  for  headlines.  To 
the  winds  strong  lungs  bawl  the  naked  facts. 
Depend  upon  it — no  matter  who  escapes  the 
public  hue  and  cry,  the  artist  is  always  found 
out  and  his  peccadilloes  proclaimed  from  pulpits 
or  yawped  over  the  roofs  of  the  world.  Why, 
you  ask,  should  a  devotee  of  aesthetic  beauty 
ever  allow  his  feet  to  lead  him  astray?  Here 
comes  in  your  much-vaunted,  too-much-dis- 
cussed artistic  temperament — odious  phrase! 
Hawked  about  the  market-place,  instead  of 
reposing  in  the  holy  of  holies,  this  temperament 
has  become  a  byword  and  a  stench  in  the  nos- 
trils. Every  coney-catcher,  prizefighter,  or  co- 
cotte  takes  refuge  behind  "art."  It  is  become 
a  name  accursed.  When  the  tripesellers  of  lit- 
erature wish  to  rivet  public  attention  upon 
their  wares,  they  cry  aloud:  "Lo,  the  artistic 
temperament!"  If  an  unfortunate  woman  is 
arrested  she  is  usually  described  in  the  police- 
blotter  as  an  "actress."  If  a  fellow  and  his 
57 


BEDOUINS 

wife  tire  of  too  much  bliss,  their  "temperaments" 
are  aired  in  the  courts.  Worse — "affinities"  are 
dragged  in.  Decent  folk  shudder  and  your 
genuine  artist  does  not  boast  of  his  "artistic 
temperament."  It  has  become  gutter-slang. 
It  is  a  synonym  for  rotten  "nerves." 

A  true  artist  abhors  the  ascription^of  tempera- 
ment, keeping  within  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul 
the  ideal  that  is  the  mainspring  of  his  creation. 
The  true  artist  temperament  is,  in  reality,  the 
perception  and  appreciation  of  beauty,  whether 
in  pigment,  form,  tone,  words,  nature,  or  in  the 
loftier  region  of  moral  rectitude.  It  may  exist 
coevally  with  a  strong  religious  sense.  And  it 
may  be  gayly  pagan.  But  always  for  the  serious 
artist  the  human  body  is  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  as  Mother  Church,  profoundest  of  psy- 
chologists, has  taught.  The  dignity  of  men 
and  women  dare  be  violated  only  at  the  peril  of 
their  immortal  souls.  The  artistic  temperament 
adds  new  values  to  everv-day  life  and  character. 
But  its  possessor  must  not  parade  this  personal 
quality  as  an  excuse  for  self-indulgence.  That 
he  leaves  to  the  third-rate  artisan,  to  the  char- 
latan, to  the  buffoon  who  grins  through  a  horse 
collar,  to  the  vicious  who  shield  their  vileness 
behind  a  torrid  temperament.  Now,  art  and 
sex  are  correlated.  Sex  is  the  salt  of  life.  Art 
without  sex  is  flavorless,  hardly  art  at  all,  a 
frozen  simulacrum.  All  great  artists  are  virile. 
And  their  greatness  consists  in  the  victory  over 
their  temperaments;  not  in  the  triumph  of  mind 


THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT 

over  matter — futile  phrase — but  in  a  synthesis, 
the  harmonious  comminglement  of  intellect  and 
artistic  material.  Sensualist  your  artist  may 
be,  but  if  he  is  naught  else,  then  his  technical 
virtuosity  avails  him  not.  He  cannot  achieve 
artistic  grandeur.  The  noblest  art  is  the  tri- 
umph of  imagination  over  temperament. 

Too  often  a  rainbow  mirage  is  this  entering 
into  wedlock  of  two  congenial  souls. 

When  He  whispers — it  is  the  marrying  month 
of  June  and  the  moon  swims  above  in  the  tender 
blue — "Why,  dear,  it  is  just  as  easy  for  two  to 
live  as  one  on  fifty  dollars  a  week,"  the  re- 
cording angel  smiles,  then  weeps.  Nor  has  the 
hardy  young  adventurer  spiders  on  his  ceiling. 
He  dares  to  be  a  fool,  and  that  is  the  first  step 
in  the  path  of  wisdom.  But  She?  Oh,  She  is 
enraptured.  Naturally  they  will  economize; 
occasional  descents  into  cheap  Bohemias;  saw- 
dust, pink  wine,  pinker  wit,  pinkest  women. 
No  new  gowns.  No  balls.  No  theatres.  No 
operas.  No  society.  It  is  only  to  be  Art,  Art, 
Art!  So  they  bundle  their  incompatible  tem- 
peraments before  an  official  and  are  made  one. 
At  least  they  are  legally  hitched.  She  plays 
the  piano.  He  paints.  A  wonderful  vista, 
hazy  with  dreams,  spreads  before  them.  She 
will  teach  a  few  pupils,  keep  up  her  practice, 
and  save  enough  to  study  some  day  with  a 
pupil  of  a  pupil  of  Leschetizky.  He  will  man- 
fully paint,  yes,  a  few  portraits,  though  land- 
scape is  his  ambition.  But  it  is  hard  to  resist 
59 


BEDOUINS 

the  bribes  of  our  dear  common  life.  They  try, 
they  fail. 

A  year  passes.  What  a  difference !  Gone  are 
the  dreams.  There  are  many  spiders  on  the 
ceiling  now.  To  pay  for  the  food  they  eat,  to 
own  the  roof  over  their  heads,  are  their  ultimate 
desires.  She  looks  paler.  He  may  or  may  not 
drink;  it  doesn't  much  matter.  There  are  no 
portraits  painted;  an  artist  must  be  doubled  by 
a  society  man  to  capture  commissions,  to  enjoy 
the  velvet  vulgarities  of  the  new-rich.  And 
artists  demand  too  much  of  their  wives.  She 
must  be  a  social  success;  also  a  combination  of 
cook  and  concubine.  Women  are  versatile. 
Women  are  born  actresses.  It  was  a  woman, 
not  a  man,  who  discovered  the  art  of  leading  a 
double  life  on  ten  dollars  a  week.  But  on  thrice 
that  amount  they  can't  run  a  household,  watch 
the  baby — oh,  wretched  intruder! — play  like 
Fannie  Bloomfield  Zeisler,  and  look  like  an 
houri.  To  be  a  steam-heated  American  beauty, 
your  father  must  be  a  billionaire. 

The  artist-woman  is  a  finely  attuned  fiddle. 
You  may  mend  a  fiddle,  but  not  a  bell,  says 
Ibsen.  True,  but  if  you  smash  your  fiddle  the 
music  is  mute.  And  every  day  of  fault-finding 
snaps  a  string,  or  reduces  its  tautness.  How 
long  does  beauty  endure?  Begin  misunder- 
standings. Pity,  the  most  subtly  cruel  of  the 
Seven  Deadly  Virtues,  stalks  the  studio.  Se- 
cretly She  pities  him.  Secretly  He  pities  her. 
Pity  breeds  hatred.  Difference  develops  dis- 
60 


THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT 

content.  At  breakfast,  the  most  trying  time  of 
the  twenty-four  hours — oh,  the  temperamental 
breakfasts  when  we  were  young  and  delightfully 
miserable ! — even  when  you  haven't  anything  to 
eat — at  breakfast,  He  pities  her  flushed  face  as 
She  runs  in  from  the  kitchen  with  eggs  and 
coffee.  No  longer  is  She  a  sylph  in  his  eyes. 
The  fifty  dollars  a  week  seem  shrunken,  not 
enough  for  one  to  live  upon,  much  less  two  or 
three.  She  pities  him  because  He  is  flushed 
from  his  night's  outing.  His  appetite,  like  his 
temper,  is  capricious.  In  her  eyes  He  is  the 
ordinary  male  brute  (feed  the  brute!).  Then 
He  becomes  imprudent  and  flings  Schopenhauer 
at  her  head.  That  old  humbug  of  a  misogynist, 
who  was  always  elbow-deep  in  woman  scrapes ! 
But  She  has  no  time  to  retort  with  Ibsen  and 
Shaw  for  his  swift  discomfiture.  The  milkman 
is  dunning  her,  and  as  baby  must  have  pure 
milk  She  smiles  at  her  foolish  young  man  and 
teases  him  for  the  money.  He  looks  blankly 
at  her  as  He  dives  into  empty  pockets.  This 
sort  of  thing  may  last  for  years.  In  reckless 
despair  He  may  throw  his  lamp  at  the  moon, 
She  her  bonnet  over  the  windmill.  Female  suf- 
frage will  make  such  conditions  impossible  in 
the  future  by  forbidding  men  the  ballot.  Like 
a  sensible  shoemaker  let  him  stick  to  his  last,  or, 
to  shift  the  image,  let  him  grind  the  handle  of 
the  domestic  barrel-organ  while  She  collects 
the  coppers. 

It  is  when  the  lean  years  are  upon  the  philan- 
61 


BEDOUINS 

dering  artist,  the  years  of  thin  thoughts  and 
bleak  regrets,  that  he  may  miss  the  loving  wives 
of  his  past.  Then  will  he  cry  in  the  stillness  of 
his  heart:  O  Time!  Eternal  shearer  of  souls, 
spare  me  thy  slow  clippings.  Shear  me  in  haste, 
shear  me  closely !  You  see,  he  remains  the  lit- 
erary artist,  and  in  the  face  of  death  he  wears 
his  shop  mask.  His  artistic  affinity,  encoun- 
tered late  in  their  earthly  pilgrimage,  congratu- 
lates herself  that  her  latter  lonesome  years  won't 
be  burdened  by  the  ills  and  whims  and  senile 
vanity  of  an  old  man.  She  may  be  a  spinster 
and  boast  the  artistic  temperament.  Or  she 
may  escape  that  fate  by  marrying  a  sensible 
business  or  professional  man,  who  pays  the 
freight  and  admires  her  pasty  painting,  her 
facile,  empty  music-making,  her  unplayed  plays, 
unread  verse  and  novels — that  are  privately 
printed.  Thus  doth  Nature  hit  the  happy 
mean.  He  who  could  hold  hands  with  a  pretty 
girl  in  eleven  languages  consoles  himself  with 
his  corroded  memories.  After  all,  has  he  not 
been  a  success,  has  he  not  eluded  entangling 
matrimonial  alliances?  Ah,  the  artistic  tem- 
perament ! 

During  a  certain  London  silly  season  some 
enterprising  imbecile  posed  this  query:  Can  a 
woman  on  the  boards  remain  virtuous?  This 
absurd  question  set  Great  Britain  buzzing.  His 
Grace  the  Archbishop  answered,  and  every 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  rushed  into  type  to  record 
their  precious  opinions.  The  theatrical  profes- 
62 


THE  ARTISTIC  TEMPERAMENT 

sion  rose  as  a  single  woman.  Mrs.  Kendal  and 
Mary  Anderson  were  held  up  as  shining  pat- 
terns, which  they  are.  But  there  were  many 
sceptics.  George  Moore's  Mummer  Worship 
was  hurled  at  the  camp  of  the  optimists.  Ra- 
chel, Sarah  Bernhardt,  and  Duse  were  adduced 
by  the  pessimists.  Finally  it  occurred  to  the 
one  intelligent  person  in  all  London  to  interview 
George  Bernard  Shaw. 

"Mr.  Shaw,  do  you  think  a  woman  can  be 
virtuous  in  the  theatre?" 

"Why  should  she  be?"  asked  St.  George, 
and  then  and  there  the  moral  symposium  went 
up  in  a  burst  of  uncontrolled  laughter.  Mr. 
Shaw  is  like  the  little  candid  girl  in  the  crowd; 
for  him  the  truth  is  always  naked.  So  is  the 
artistic  temperament. 


VII 

THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE 
MIRBEAU 

OCTAVE  MIRBEAU  was  a  prodigious  penman. 
When  Remy  de  Gourmont  called  Paul  Adam 
"a  magnificent  spectacle"  he  might  have  said 
with  equal  propriety  the  same  of  Mirbeau.  A 
spectacle  and  a  stirring  one  it  is  to  watch  the 
workings  of  a  powerful,  tumultuous  brain  such 
as  Mirbeau's.  He  was  a  tempestuous  force. 
His  energy  electric.  He  could  have  repeated 
the  exclamation  of  Anacharsis  Clootz:  "I  belong 
to  the  pdrty  of  indignation!"  His  whole  life 
Mirbeau  was  in  a  ferment  of  indignation  over 
the  injustice  of  life,  of  literature,  of  art.  His 
friends  say  that  he  was  not  a  revolutionist  born; 
nevertheless,  he  ever  seemed  in  a  pugnacious 
mood,  whether  attacking  society,  the  Govern- 
ment, the  Institutes,  the  theatre,  the  army  or 
religion.  There  is  no  doubt  that  certain  tem- 
peraments are  uneasy  if  not  in  opposition  to 
existing  institutions,  and  while  his  sincerity  was 
indisputable — an  imperious  sincerity,  a  sincerity 
that  was  perilously  nigh  an  obsession — Mirbeau 
seemed  possessed  by  the  mania  of  contradiction. 
After  his  affiliations  with  Jules  Valles  and  the 
anarchistic  group  he  was  nicknamed  "Mira- 
64 


THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU 

beau,"  and,  indeed,  there  was  in  him  much  of 
the  fiery  and  disputatious,  though  he  never  in 
oratory  recalled  the  mighty  revolutionist.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  was  a  prodigious  penman. 

He  was  born  in  Normandy,  1850  (Ernest  Gau- 
bert  says  1848),  the  country  of  those  two 
giants,  Gustave  Flaubert  and  Barbey  d'Aure- 
villy.  He  died  early  in  1917.  His  Odyssey, 
apart  from  his  writings,  was  not  an  exciting  one. 
Well  born  and  well  educated,  he  took  a  violent 
dislike  to  his  clerical  instructors,  and  as  may 
be  noted  in  Sebastien  Roch  (1890),  he  suffered 
from  the  result  of  a  shock  to  his  sensibilities  be- 
cause of  an  outrageous  occurrence  in  the  course 
of  his  school  years.  He  early  went  to  Paris, 
like  many  another  ambitious  young  man,  and 
began  as  an  art-critic,  but  his  first  article  on 
Monet,  Manet,  and  Cezanne  was  also  his  last 
in  the  journal  VOrdre;  it  created  so  much  scan- 
dal by  its  attack  on  those  mud-gods  of  art,  Meis- 
sonier,  Cabanel,  Lefebvre  and  Bouguereau,  that 
he  was  drafted  into  the  dramatic  department. 
There  he  did  not  last  long.  After  a  violent  dia- 
tribe against  the  House  of  Moliere  he  found 
himself  with  several  duels  on  his  hands  and 
enjoyed  the  distinction  of  a  personal  reply  from 
Coquelin.  He  wrote  for  a  little  review  Les 
Grimaces,  and  in  1891  defended  Jean  Grave's 
La  Societe  Mourante  and  composed  a  preface 
for  that  literary  firebrand.  He  had  dipped  into 
the  equivocal  swamp  of  politics  and  had  been 
a  sous-prefet  (at  St.  Girons,  1877),  but  the  expe- 
65 


BEDOUINS 

rience  did  not  lend  enchantment  to  his  patriot- 
ism. He  saw  the  inner  machinery  of  a  democ- 
racy greasy  with  corruption  and  it  served  him 
as  material  for  his  political  polemics. 

His  first  decade  in  Paris  he  wrote  for  such 
publications  as  Ckroniques  Parisiennes,  La 
France,  Gaulois,  and  Figaro.  The  entire  gamut 
of  criticism  was  achieved  by  him.  He  was  fear- 
less. His  pen  was  vitriolic  and  also  a  sledge- 
hammer. Like  old  Dr.  Johnson,  if  his  weapon 
missed  fire  he  brained  his  adversary  with  its 
butt-end.  A  formidable  antagonist,  yet  the 
obverse  of  his  medal  shows  us  a  poet  of  ab- 
normal sensibilities,  a  leather  of  all  injustice,  a 
Quixote  tilting  at  genuine  giants,  not  missing 
windmills;  also  a  man  of  great  literary  endow- 
ment and  achievement.  His  critics  speak  of  a 
period  of  discouragement  during  which  he 
smoked  opium,  though  without  ill  consequences. 
His  was  not  a  passive  temperament  to  endure 
inaction.  Like  others,  he  had  perversely  imi- 
tated Baudelaire  and  De  Quincey,  but  soon  gave 
up  the  attempt.  A  nature  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  lytic  pantheism  and  truculent  satire, 
Mirbeau  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe,  and  it  is  gratify- 
ing to  learn  that  as  he  conquered  in  his  art  so 
he  conquered  himself.  He  waged  war  against 
Octave  Mirbeau  to  the  last.  And  no  wonder. 
He  has  written  stories  that  would  bring  a  crim- 
son blush  to  the  brow  of  Satan. 

Turning  the  pages  of  the  principal  Paris  re- 
views to  which  he  copiously  contributed  we  find 
66 


THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU 

him  calling  the  financial  press  blackmailers;  the 
law  reporters  "vermine  judiciaire";  French  jour- 
nalism decidedly  decadent:  "The  press  kills  lit- 
erature, art,  patriotism;  it  aggrandizes  the  shop 
and  develops  the  shopkeeping  spirit.  It  exalts 
the  mediocre  painters,  sculptors,  writers.  Its 
criticism  is  venal."  As  for  the  theatre — from 
the  frying-pan  into  the  fire !  The  theatre  is  the 
prey  of  mediocrity,  wherein  Le  Maitre  de  Forges 
is  pronounced  a  masterpiece ! 

The  comedians  ("les  tripots  revenus;  caboti- 
nisme")  of  La  Comedie  Frangaise  come  in  for 
their  share.  Emile  Zola,  naturally  enough,  has 
his  allegiance,  but  he  dealt  hard  raps  on  the 
skulls  of  his  followers,  the  Zolaettes,  who  hung 
on  the  fringe  of  the  novelist's  dressing-gown. 
He  admired  Barbey  d'Aurevilly  and  Elemir 
Bourges,  as  well  he  might;  he  attacked  Daudet, 
Paul  Bourget,  Ohnet,  Legouve,  Feuillet,  Sarcey 
— dear  old  Uncle  Sarcey,  how  Huysmans  and 
Mirbeau  did  pound  him ! — and,  last  and  worst, 
the  art-critic  of  the  Figaro,  Albert  Wolff.  But 
he  deserved  the  flaying. 

In  La  Presse  Mirbeau  saluted  the  genius  of 
Rodin,  Maupassant,  and  praised  Paul  Hervieu. 
He  adored  Victor  Hugo,  not  only  as  supreme 
poet  but  as  humanitarian — the  very  quality  that 
to-day  so  many  find  monotonous  in  his  lyrics. 
But  there  was  more  than  a  strain  of  humanitari- 
anism  in  Mirbeau.  He  was  truly  a  Brother  to 
Man,  but  he  never  exploited  it  as  do  sentimental 
socialists.  It  was  the  spectacle  of  poverty,  of 


BEDOUINS 

the  cruelty  of  man  to  man,  of  the  cruelty  to 
animals — he  wrote  a  novel  about  a  dog — that 
set  the  blood  boiling  in  his  veins  and  forced  him 
to  utter  terrible,  regrettable  phrases.  His 
friends  grieved,  yet^the'spectacle  was  not  unlike  a 
volcano  in  action.  That  all  this  was  prejudicial 
to  the  serenity  of  his  art  is  not  to  be  doubted. 
Mirbeau  cared  little.  Let  art  perish  if  he 
accomplished  a  reform!  Yet  he  has  written 
some  almost  perfect  pages,  and  in  the  presence 
of  nature  his  angry  soul  was  soothed,  ennobled. 
A  poet  was  slain  in  him  before  his  vision  became 
voice.  He  loved  the  figure  of  Christ  and  he 
drifted  into  the  mystic  and  lovable  theories  of 
Kropotkine,  Elisee  Reclus,  and  Tolstoy.  Their 
influence  is  manifested  in  his  Lettres  de  ma 
Chaumi£re  (1886).  These  tales  overflow  with 
sympathy  and  indignation.  The  French  peas- 
ant as  he  is,  neither  idealized  by  Millet  nor  cari- 
catured by  Zola,  is  painted  here  with  an  intimate 
brush — it  is  painted  miasma,  one  is  tempted  to 
add.  That  he  was  an  unyielding  Dreyfusard  is 
a  matter  of  history. 

It  may  be  said  in  passing  that  Mirbeau  had 
not  the  stuff  in  him  to  make  a  sound  or  satisfac- 
tory critic  of  the  Fine  Arts.  He  was  too  one- 
sided in  his  Salons,  his  enthusiasms  were  often 
ill-placed,  and  he  resembled  Zola  in  his  vocabu- 
lary of  abuse  if  any  one  disagreed  with  him. 
M.  Durand-Ruel,  where  he  was  liked  for  his 
sterling  qualities,  has  a  pamphlet  of  Mirbeau's 
on  the  Impressionists.  Published  here  it  would 
68 


THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU 

have  resulted  either  in  a  libel  suit  or  a  prosecu- 
tion for  obscenity.  His  definitionof  a  certain  art- 
critic  is  unprintable.  When  he  hated  he  stopped 
short  of  nothing.  A  true  Celt.  But  how  he 
could  tune  down  the  peg  of  the  false  heroic  to 
make  sound  the  mean  music  of  mean  souls! 
There  are  a  dozen  men  in  Paris  who  were  riddled 
by  his  shot  and  shell.  He  did  not  spare  the 
Government  and  told  some  wholesome  truths 
about  the  Tonkin  affair.  But  he  was  not  all 
fire  and  fury.  He  had  intellectual  charity,  and 
the  artist  in  him  often  prevailed.  He  was  de- 
structive, and  he  could  be  constructive.  He 
could  be  charming  and  tender,  too,  and  his  style 
ranged  from  thunder-words  to  supple-sweet 
magic. 

The  constructive  in  him  was  artistic,  but 
when  the  propagandist  reins  were  between  his 
teeth  his  judgments  were  muddied  by  his 
turbulence.  And  how  clearly  he  could  judge 
was  proved  by  his  clairvoyant  article  in  Le 
Figaro  on  an  unknown  Belgian,  by  name  Maurice 
Maeterlinck  (1890).  Mirbeau  literally  discov- 
ered Maeterlinck;  and  while  we  now  smile  over 
the  title  of  "  Belgian  Shakespeare/7  there  is  no 
denying  the  flair  of  the  Parisian  critic.  Cer- 
tainly he  made  a  better  guess  than  the  amusing 
Max  Nordau,  who  once  described  the  author  of 
The  Treasures  of  the  Humble  as  "a  pitiable 
mental  cripple."  In  1888  L'Abbe  Jules  ap- 
peared. It  was  Mirbeau's  first  novel.  For  the 
chief  character  he  went  to  his  uncle,  a  priest  of 

69 


BEDOUINS 

rather  singular  traits.    The  book  became  a  burn- 
ing scandal. 

Le  Calvaire  (1887)  confirmed  the  reputation 
of  the  young  writer.  He  certainly  had  a  predi- 
lection "pour  la  poesie  de  la  pourriture,"  as  one 
critic  puts  it.  But  Calvary  is  a  masterpiece 
and  his  least  offensive  fiction.  The  story  of  the 
little  soldier  who  shoots  an  Uhlan  in  the  war  of 
1870  and  then  tries  to  revive  the  dead  man, 
finally  kissing  him  on  the  forehead  as  a  testi- 
mony of  his  fraternal  feeling,  is  touching.  S6- 
bastien  Roch,  the  third  novel,  is  full  of  verity 
and  power  only  marred  by  a  page,  one  of  the 
most  hideous  in  French  fiction  (irrespective  of 
avowedly  crapulous  stories).  But  Mirbeau  has 
testified  to  its  truth  elsewhere.  The  hero  be- 
comes a  victim  to  aboulia,  or  the  malady  of 
doubt.  Happiness  is  not  for  him  and  he  dies 
in  the  Franco-Prussian  conflict.  Le  Jardin  des 
Supplices  (1899)  set  Paris  cynically  shivering 
with  a  new  sensation.  This  garden  of  tortures 
is  the  most  damnably  cruel  book  in  contempo- 
rary fiction.  It  was  conceived  by  a  Torque- 
mada  of  sadism.  Yet  Mirbeau  disclaimed  any 
notion  of  writing  for  mere  notoriety.  These 
sombre  pages  of  blood  and  obscenity  were 
printed  to  show  the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  all 
Governments.  The  Chinese  were  selected  as 
masters  of  the  most  exquisite  tortures.  A  vile 
nightmare  is  the  result.  It  demands  strong 
nerves  to  read  it  once  through;  a  rereading 
70 


THE  PASSING  OF  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU 

would  seem  incredible.    Swift  is  in  comparison 
an  ironical  comedian. 

Les  Memoires  d'une  Femme  de  Chambre 
(1901)  is  backstairs  gossip,  though  the  purpose 
is  not  missing;  again  satire  of  the  better  classes, 
so-called.  Les  vingt-et-un  jours  d'un  Neur- 
asthenique  (1902)  need  not  detain  us,  nor  such 
one-act  pieces  as  Vieux  Menage  (1901),  Amanto 
(1901),  Scrupules  (1902),  or  Le  Foyer,  with 
Natanson  (1908).  He  also  wrote  a  preface  to 
Margaret  Andoux's  story,  Marie  Claire.  The 
first  important  dramatic  work  of  Mirbeau  was 
Les  Mauvais  Bergers,  in  five  acts,  produced  at 
the  Theatre  de  la  Renaissance  (December  14, 
1897).  We  can  still  evoke  the  image  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt  in  the  last  act,  an  act  charged  with 
pity  and  irony.  The  play,  because  of  its  politi- 
cal and  social  currents,  created  a  dolorous  and 
profound  impression.  The  work  has  in  it  some- 
thing of  both  The  Conquest  of  Bread  and  The 
Weavers.  In  Les  Affaires  sont  les  Affaires,  pro- 
duced at  the  Theatre  Frangais  (April  20,  1903), 
Mirbeau  is  at  his  satirical  best.  The  play  has 
been  shown  here,  but  in  a  colorless,  unconvinc- 
ing style.  In  De  Feraudy's  hands  the  character 
of  Isidore  Lechat,  both  a  type  and  an  individual 
— one  of  our  modern  captains  of  industry  (in  the 
old  days,  a  chevalier  of  industry?) — was  per- 
fectly exhibited.  After  witnessing  in  June  of  the 
same  year  a  performance  of  this  bitterly  satirical 
comedy  I  met  the  author,  who  appeared  as 


BEDOUINS 

mUd-inannered  a  pirate  as  ever  cut  a  poet  or 
scuttled  a  ship  of  State. 

Paul  Hervieu  told  me  at  the  time  that  the 
bark  of  this  old  growling  mastiff  was  worse  than 
his  bite;  but  his  victims  did  not  believe  this. 
He  was,  in  his  dynamic  prime,  the  best-hated 
publicist  in  all  Paris — and  that  is  saying  a  lot, 
for  there  were  also  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  Ernst 
Hello,  Louis  Veuillot,  J.  K.  Huysmans  and  sev- 
eral other  virtuosi  in  the  noble  art  of  making 
foes.  Decidedly,  Mirbeau  was  not  a  lagger  be- 
hind those  pamphleteers  and  dealers  in  corrosive 
verbal  values. 

That  he  could  be  human  was  shown  in  his 
vertiginous  automobile  story  La  628-E8,  where, 
after  retelling  what  Victor  Hugo  had  hinted  at 
in  his  Choses  vues,  Mirbeau  made  an  apology 
to  the  daughter — or  was  it  granddaughter? — of 
Mme.  Hanska  Balzac  for  a  certain  chapter 
which  relates  the  Russian  lady's  doings  on  the 
heels  of  her  great  husband's  death.  Mirbeau 
was  not  legally  compelled  to  withdraw  this 
chapter,  as  it  was  a  thrice-told  tale  in  Paris,  but 
a  friend  explained  to  him  the  lady's  distress 
and  he  promptly  made  the  only  amend  he  could. 
This  man  had  also  a  prodigious  heart. 


72 


VIII 
ANARCHS  AND  ECSTASY 

LEST  we  forget.  While  competition  is  the 
life  of  cocottes,  the  rival  opera  companies  that 
fill  the  air  of  Gotham  with  their  lyric  cries 
offer  to  the  truly  musical  only  the  choice  be- 
tween two  despairs;  with  our  accustomed  happy 
indecision  we  prefer  Leopold  Godowsky  to 
Puccini.  We  frankly  confess  our  love  of  sym- 
phonic music,  and  would  rather  listen  to  a  Bee- 
thoven string  quartet  played  by  the  Flonzaleys 
than  all  the  operas  ever  written;  the  majority  of 
them  depicting  soul-states  in  a  sanatorium. 
However,  there  is  the  charm  of  aversion,  and 
that  piques  the  curious.  Music  in  opera  is 
prodigal,  never  generous.  It  is  the  too-much 
that  appalls.  It  is  as  reticent  as  a  female  poli- 
tician and  a  hundredfold  more  attractive.  Fly- 
ing fish,  these  singing-actors.  They  needs  must 
swim  and  fly.  Winged  fish,  birds  with  fins.  It 
is  an  ambiguous  art,  the  operatic,  and  it  is  de- 
vised to  tickle  the  ears,  dazzle  the  eyes,  of  the 
unmusical  and  myopic.  It  breeds  personal  gos- 
sip, never  thought.  For  God's  sake,  let  us  sit 
upon  the  ground  and  tell  sad  stories  of  Mary 
Garden's  celebrated  eyebrows!  (This  modern 
instance,  for  Mary  always  goes  first,  as  Henry 
73 


BEDOUINS 

Arthur  of  the  Jones  family  would  say,  does  not 
necessitate  Shakespearean  quotation  marks.) 
From  Bach  to  Scriabin,  have  not  all  composers 
been  anarchs  ?  At  first  blush  the  plodding  John 
Sebastian  Bach  of  the  Ill-Tempered  Clavichord 
seems  a  dubious  figure  with  which  to  drape  the 
red  flag  of  revolt.  He  grew  a  forest  of  children. 
He  taught  early  and  late.  He  played  the  organ 
in  church  of  Sundays.  Nevertheless,  his  music 
proves  him  a  revolutionist.  And,  like  any  good 
social  democrat,  he  quarrelled  with  his  surround- 
ings. He  even  went  out  for  a  drink  during  a 
prosy  sermon — all  sermons  are  necessarily  prosy, 
else  they  wouldn't  be  sermons — and  was  almost 
discharged  by  his  superiors  for  returning  late;  a 
perpetual  warning  to  thirsty  organists.  If  Lom- 
broso  had  been  cognizant  of  this  suspicious  fact 
he  would  have  built  a  terrific  structure  of  de- 
generation theories  with  all  sorts  of  inferential 
subcellars.  Stranger  still,  the  music  of  Bach 
remains  as  revolutionary  as  the  hour  it  was 
written.  No  latter-day  composer  has  gone  so 
far  as  some  of  his  fantasies.  Mozart  and  Gluck 
depended  too  much  on  aristocratic  patronage 
to  play  the  r61es  of  anarchs;  yet  tales  are  extant 
of  their  refusal  to  lick  the  boots  of  the  mighty 
or  curve  the  spine  of  the  suppliant.  Handel! 
A  fighter,  a  revolutionist  born,  a  hater  of  ty-: 
rants.  And  the  most  virile  among  musicians 
except  the  peasant  Beethoven — since  the  recent 
war  become  a  Belgian  composer !  His  contempt 
for  rank  and  its  entailed  snobberies  was  like  a 
74 


ANARCHS  AND  ECSTASY 

blow  from  a  muscular  fist.  Haydn  need  not  be 
considered.  He  was  a  henpecked  Croatian,  and 
strange  stories  are  related  of  this  merry  little 
blade,  truly  a  chamber-music  husband.  Men- 
delssohn was  Bach  watered  down  for  general 
consumption.  Schubert  and  Schumann  were 
anarchs,  but  the  supreme  anarch  of  art  was 
Beethoven,  who  translated  into  daily  practice 
the  radicalism  of  his  music. 

Because  of  its  opportunities  for  the  expansion 
of  the  soul,  music  has  ever  attracted  the  strong 
free  sons  of  the  earth.  It  is,  par  excellence,  the 
art  masculine.  The  profoundest  truths,  the 
most  blasphemous  ideas,  may  be  incorporated 
within  the  walls  of  a  symphony,  and  the  police 
none  the  wiser.  Think  of  Chopin  and  Tchai- 
kovsky and  the  arrant  doctrines  they  preached. 
It  is  its  freedom  from  the  meddlesome  hand  of 
the  censor  that  has  made  of  music  a  playground 
for  brave  hearts.  In  his  Siegfried  and  under 
the  long  nose  of  royalty  Richard  Wagner 
preached  anarchy,  put  into  tone,  words,  ges- 
tures, attitudes,  lath,  plaster,  paint,  and  canvas, 
pronouncements  so  terrible  that  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountain,  as  Bernard  Shaw  calls  Gov- 
ernment, if  it  but  knew,  would  forbid  his  music, 
not  because  it  was  penned  by  a  German,  but 
because  it  is  inimical  to  tyranny,  therefore  the 
most  democratic  music  ever  composed. 

Chopin  presents  us  with  a  psychic  "equiva- 
lent of  war,"  as  William  James  has  put  it,  in 
portions  of  his  music,  notably  the  polonaises; 
75 


BEDOUINS 

while  Richard  Strauss  has  buried  more  bombs 
in  his  work  than  ever  Chopin  with  his  cannon 
smothered  in  roses,  or  Bakounine  and  his  nihilis- 
tic prose.  Liszt,  midway  in  his  mortal  lif e,  was 
bitten  by  the  socialistic  theories  of  Saint-Simon, 
and,  though  a  silken  courtier,  he  was  an  inno- 
vator in  his  music.  Brahms  was  a  free-thinker 
and  a  democrat,  but  closely  hugged  the  classic 
line  and  seldom  strayed  from  the  boundaries  of 
his  Romantic  park.  Berlioz,  Hector  of  the 
Flaming  Locks,  was,  his  life  long,  a  fiery  indi- 
vidualist. He  would  have  made  a  picturesque 
figure  waving  a  blood-red  flag  on  the  barricades. 
His  fantastic  symphony  is  charged  with  the 
tonal  commandments  of  anarchy.  Richard 
Wagner  may  not  have  shouldered  a  musket 
during  the  Dresden  uprising  of  1849,  yet  he  was, 
with  Roeckel  and  Bakounine,  one  of  its  inspirers. 
Luckily  for  us  he  ran  away,  else  Tristan 
might  have  remained  in  the  womb  of  eternal 
silence.  Wagner  may  be  called  the  Joseph 
Proudhon  among  composers;  his  music  is  anar- 
chy incarnate,  passionately  deliberate,  like  the 
sad  and  logical  music  we  find  in  the  great 
Frenchman's  Philosophy  of  Misery  (by  the  way, 
a  subtitle).  His  very  scheme  of  harmonization 
is  the  symbol  of  a  soul  insurgent  in  the  music  of 
Richard  Strauss.  And  what  shall  we  say  to  the 
exquisite  anarchy  of  Debussy  and  Ravel?  To 
the  cerebral  insurrection  of  Schoenberg?  To 
the  devastating  sirocco  blasts  of  Scriabin,  Stra- 
vinsky, Ornstein,  and  Prokofieff?  The  Neo- 


ANARCHS  AND  ECSTASY 

Scythians,  who,  like  their  savage  forebears, 
throw  across  their  saddle-bow  the  helpless  dia- 
tonic and  chromatic  scales  and  bear  away  their 
prisoners  to  their  ultimate  goal;  the  unknown 
land  of  the  sinister  duodecuple  scale !  Ah !  we 
did  not  heed  years  ago  the  wise  words  of  our 
critical  Nestor,  H.  E.  Krehbiel,  when  he  said, 
"'Ware  the  Muscovite!"  (He  denies  having 
used  this  precise  phrase.  Too  late.  We  have 
pinned  it  to  paper  and  it  will  go  marching  down 
the  corridor  of  destiny  wearing  his  label.)  Ecce 
Cossakus !  Bad  Latin,  but  reality.  The  Tar- 
tars are  coming.  Anarchs  all. 

And  ecstasy !  It  is  not  an  eminently  modern 
quality  in  the  Seven  Arts.  Sculpture  did  for  a 
time  resist  the  universal  disintegration,  this  im- 
broglio of  all  the  arts.  Before  Rodin  no  sculptor 
had  so  greatly  dared  to  break  the  line,  had 
dared  to  shiver  the  syntax  of  stone.  Sculpture 
is  a  static,  not  a  dynamic,  art;  therefore,  let  us 
observe  the  rules,  preserve  the  chill  spirit  of  the 
cemetery  !  What  Mallarme  attempted  in  poetry 
Rodin  accomplished  in  clay.  His  marbles  do 
not  represent,  but  present  emotion,  are  the  evo- 
cation of  emotion;  as  in  music,  form  and  sub- 
stance coalesce.  If  he  does  not,  as  did  Mallarme, 
arouse  "the  silent  thunder  afloat  in  the  leaves/' 
he  summons  from  the  vasty  deep  the  spirits  of 
beauty,  love,  hate,  pain,  joy,  sin,  ecstasy,  above 
all,  ecstasy.  The  primal  and  danger-breeding 
gift  of  ecstasy  is  bestowed  upon  few.  Keats  had 
it,  and  Shelley;  despite  his  passion,  Byron  missed 
77 


BEDOUINS 

it,  as  did  the  austere  Wordsworth — who  had,  per- 
haps, loftier  compensations.  Swinburne  had  it 
from  the  first.  Not  Tennyson,  and  Browning 
only  in  occasional  exaltation.  Like  the  "cold 
devils"  of  Felicien  Rops,  coiled  in  frozen  ecstasy, 
the  winds  of  hell  booming  about  them,  the  po- 
etry of  Charles  Baudelaire  is  ecstatic.  Poe  and 
Heine  knew  ecstasy,  and  Liszt  too;  but  Wagner, 
ill-tempered  like  all  martyrs,  was  the  master 
adept  of  his  century.  Tchaikovsky  closely  fol- 
lows him,  and  in  the  tiny  piano  pieces  of  Chopin 
ecstasy  is  pinioned  in  a  few  bars,  the  soul  rapt 
to  heaven  in  a  phrase.  Richard  Strauss  has 
shown  us  a  variation  on  the  theme:  voluptuous- 
ness troubled  by  pain,  the  soul  tortured  by  the 
very  ecstasy  of  ecstasy.  Like  Yeats,  he  is 
"Master  of  the  Still  Stars  and  of  the  Flaming 
Door."  William  Blake  and  his  figures  rushing 
down  the  secret  pathway  of  the  mystic,  which 
zigzags  from  the  Fourth  Dimension  to  the  bot- 
tomless pit  of  materialism,  was  a  creator  of  the 
darker  nuances  of  pain  and  ecstasy.  A  sadistic 
strain  in  all  this. 

Scriabin  is  of  this  tormented  choir;  as  Arthur 
B.  Davies,  our  own  mystic,  primitive  painter. 
And  Charles  Martin  Loeffler.  It  may  be  the 
decadence,  as  any  art  is  in  decadence  which 
stakes  the  parts  against  the  whole.  That  ec- 
stasy may  be  aroused  by  pictures  of  love  and 
death,  as  in  the  cases  of  Poe  and  Baudelaire, 
Wagner  and  Strauss,  should  not,  therefore,  be 
78 


ANARCHS  AND  ECSTASY 

adjudged  morbid.  In  the  Far  East  they  hyp- 
notize neophytes  with  a  bit  of  broken  mirror, 
for  in  the  kingdom  of  art,  as  in  heaven,  there 
are  many  mansions.  It  was  possibly  a  relic  of 
his  early  admiration  for  the  Baudelaire  poems 
that  set  Wagner  to  extorting  ecstasy  from  his 
orchestra  by  images  of  love  and  death,  though 
doubtless  the  temperament  which  seeks  assuage- 
ment in  such  a  comminglement — a  temperament 
more  often  encountered  in  mediaeval  art  than 
now — was  natural  to  Wagner.  He  makes  his 
Isolde  sing  madly  and  mournfully  over  a  corpse, 
and,  throwing  herself  upon  the  dead  Tristan, 
she  dissolves  into  the  ecstasies  of  sweet,  cruel 
love;  in  Salome,  Richard  Strauss  closely  pat- 
terns after  Wagner;  there  is  the  head  of  a  dead 
man — though  on  a  charger — and  there  follows  a 
poignant  ecstasy  not  to  be  found  in  all  music. 
Both  men  play  with  similar  counters:  love  and 
death,  and  death  and  love.  In  Pisa  may  be 
seen  (attributed  by  Vasari)  Orcagna's  fresco, 
The  Triumph  of  Death.  It  has  been  set  to 
grotesque  music  by  Liszt  in  his  Dance  of 
Death.  Let  us  not  forget  the  great  Italian, 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio,  whose  magnificent  prose, 
from  The  Triumph  of  Death  to  Forse  Che  Si, 
Forse  Che  No,  is  a  paean  to  the  tutelar  gods  of 
humanity,  love  and  death.  The  sting  of  the 
flesh  and  the  way  of  all  flesh  are  intermingled 
in  Rodin's  astounding  fugue,  The  Gate  of  Hell. 
First  things  and  Last  things,  love  and  life,  bit- 
79 


BEDOUINS 

terness  and  death,  have  ever  ruled  the  arts;  and 
all  great  art  is  anarchic,  cosmos  and  chaos  cun- 
ningly proportioned. 

But  between  the  sublime  and  the  silly  there 
is  only  a  hair's  breadth.  If  not  guided  by  tact 
and  vision,  the  ecstatic  in  art  and  literature 
may  degenerate  into  the  erotic,  and  from  the 
erotic  to  the  tommyrotic  is  only  a  step.  All  this 
tumultuous  imagery,  this  rhapsody  Huneker- 
esque,  is  prompted  by  a  photograph  of  Mary 
Garden,  whose  enigmatic  eyes  collide  with  my 
gaze  across  the  Time  and  Space  of  my  writing- 
desk.  Your  memory  is  wooed  by  the  golden 
trumpets  of  Byzance,  and  when  Mary  speaks 
she  wears  the  sacred  Zaimph  of  Salammbo. 
Voltaire,  in  Candide,  was  wise  when  he  advised 
us:  "II  faut  cultiver  notre  Jardin." 


80 


IX 
PAINTED  MUSIC 

PAINTED  music.  The  common  identity  of  the 
Seven  Arts  was  a  master  theory  of  Richard  Wag- 
ner and  a  theory  he  endeavored  his  life  long  to 
put  into  practice.  Walter  Pater,  in  his  essay 
on  The  School  of  Giorgione,  has  dwelt  upon 
the  same  theme,  declaring  music  the  archetype 
of  the  arts.  In  his  Essays  Speculative,  John 
Addington  Symonds  has  said  some  pertinent 
things  on  the  subject.  Camille  Mauclair,  in 
Idees  Vivantes,  seriously  proposed  a  scheme  for 
the  fusion  of  the  arts.  The  fusion  would  be  cere- 
bral, as  the  actual  mingling  of  sculpture,  archi- 
tecture, music,  drama,  acting,  painting,  and 
dancing  could  never  evoke  the  sensation  of 
unity.  Not  thus  is  synthesis  to  be  attained. 
It  must  be  the  "idea"  of  the  arts  rather  than 
their  material  blending.  A  pretty  chimera! 
Yet  one  that  has  piqued  the  attention  of  artists 
for  centuries.  It  was  the  half-crazy  E.  T.  W. 
Hoffmann,  composer,  dramatist,  painter,  poet, 
stage  manager,  and  a  dozen  other  professions, 
including  those  of  genius  and  drunkard,  who 
set  off  a  train  of  fireworks  that  dazzled  the  brains 
of  Poe,  Baudelaire,  and  the  later  symbolists. 
81 


BEDOUINS 

Persons  who  hear  painting,  see  music,  touch 
poems,  taste  symphonies,  and  write  perfumes 
are  now  classed  by  the  psychical  police  as  deca- 
dent, though  such  notions  are  as  old  as  art  and 
literature.  In  his  L'Audition  Coloree,  Suarez 
de  Mendoza  has  said  that  the  sensation  of  color- 
hearing,  the  faculty  of  associating  tones  and 
colors,  is  often  a  consequence  of  an  association 
of  ideas  established  in  youth.  The  colored 
vowels  of  Arthur  Rimbaud,  which  should  be 
taken  as  a  poet's  crazy  prank;  the  elaborate 
treatises  by  Rene  Ghil,  which  are  terribly  ear- 
nest; the  casual  remarks  that  one  hears,  such  as 
"scarlet  is  like  a  trumpet  blast" — it  was  scarlet 
to  the  young  Mozart;  certain  pages  of  Huysmans 
and  Mallarme,  all  furnish  examples  of  the  curi- 
ous muddling  of  the  five  senses  and  the  mixing 
of  artistic  genres.  Naturally,  this  confusion  has 
invaded  criticism,  which,  limited  in  imagery, 
sometimes  seeks  to  transpose  the  technical  terms 
of  one  art  to  another. 

Whistler,  with  his  Nocturnes,  Color-Notes, 
Symphonies  in  Rose  and  Silver,  his  Color- 
Sonatas,  boldly  annexed  well-worn  musical 
phrases  that,  in  their  new  estate,  took  on  fresher 
meanings,  while  remaining  knee-deep  in  the 
swamp  of  the  nebulous.  Modern  composers 
have  retaliated.  Musical  Impressionism  is  en- 
joying its  vogue  and  the  New  Poetry  is  desper- 
ately pictorial.  Soul-landscapes  and  etched 
sonnets  are  titles  not  unpleasing  to  the  ear. 
What  if  they  do  not  mean  much !  There  was  a 
82 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

time  when  to  say  "she  had  a  sweet  voice" 
aroused  a  smile.  What  has  sugar  to  do  with 
sound?  It  may  be  erratic  symbolism,  this 
melange  of  terminologies,  yet,  occasionally,  it 
strikes  sparks.  There  is  a  deeply  rooted  feeling 
that  the  arts  have  a  common  matrix,  that,  emo- 
tionally, they  are  akin.  "Her  slow  smile"  in 
fiction  has  had  marked  success,  but  when  I 
wrote  of  the  "slow  Holland  landscape,"  the 
phrase  was  suspiciously  regarded.  (I  proba- 
bly found  it  in  Verlaine  or  Rodin.)  The 
bravest  critic  of  the  arts  was  Huysmans,  who 
pitched  pell-mell  into  the  hell-broth  of  his 
critiques  any  image  that  assaulted  his  fecund 
brain.  He  forces  us  to  see  his  picture;  for  he 
was  primarily  concerned  with  the  eye,  not  the 
ear.  Flaubert  represents  in  its  highest  estate  a 
fusion  of  sound  and  sense  and  seeing;  he  was 
both  an  auditive  and  a  visualist.  His  prose 
sings,  while  its  imagery  sharply  impinges  upon 
the  optic  nerve.  Nor  are  taste  and  smell  neg- 
lected— recall  the  very  flavor  of  arsenic  that 
killed  Emma  Bo  vary  or  the  scents  of  the  wood- 
land where  that  adorable  girl  lingered  with  her 
lover.  Joined  to  those  evocations  of  the  five 
senses  there  is  a  classic  balance  of  sentence, 
phrase,  paragraph,  page;  the  syntactic  architec- 
ture is  magnificent,  though  not  excelling  the  elo- 
quent Bossuet  or  the  pictorial  Chateaubriand  as 
to  complex,  harmonious  structure.  These  three 
great  French  writers  had  polyphonic  minds,  and 
their  books  and  the  orations  of  the  superb  Bos- 

83 


BEDOUINS 

suet  englobe  a  world  of  ideas  and  sensations, 
music  and  painting. 

And  Botticelli?  Was  Botticelli  a  "compre- 
hensive," as  those  with  the  sixth,  or  synthetic, 
sense  have  been  named  by  Lombroso-Levi  ? 
Beginning  as  a  goldsmith's  apprentice  (Botti- 
cello,  the  little  bottle),  Botticelli  as  a  painter 
became  the  most  original  in  all  Italy.  His  can- 
vases possess  powers  of  evocation.  He  was  a 
visionary,  this  Sandro  Filipepi,  pupil  of  the  mer- 
curial Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and  of  the  Brothers 
Poliajuolo,  and  his  vision  must  have  been  some- 
thing more  than  paint  and  pattern.  A  palimp- 
sest may  be  discerned  by  the  imaginative — 
rather  let  us  say  fanciful,  since  Coleridge  set 
forth  the  categories — whose  secrets  are  not  to 
be  easily  deciphered,  and  are  something  more 
than  those  portrayed  on  the  flat  surfaces  of  his 
pictures.  Like  most  artists  of  his  period  he 
painted  the  usual  number  of  Madonnas;  never- 
theless, he  did  not  convince  his  world,  or  suc- 
ceeding generations,  that  his  piety  was  ortho- 
dox. During  his  lifetime  suspected  of  strange 
heresies,  this  annotator  and  illustrator  of  Dante, 
this  disciple  of  Savonarola,  is  now  definitely 
ranged  as  a  spirit  saturated  with  paganism,  and 
yet  a  mystic.  Does  not  the  perverse  clash  in 
such  a  temperament  produce  exotic  dissonances  ? 

All  Florence  was  a  sounding-board  of  the  arts 

when  Botticelli  paced  its  narrow  streets  and 

lived  its  splendid  colored   life.    His   sensitive 

nature  absorbed,  as  does  a  sponge  water,  the 

84 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

impulses  and  motives  of  his  contemporaries. 
The  secrets  lurking  in  the  "new  learning" — 
doctrines  that  made  for  damnation,  such  as  the 
recrudescence  of  the  mediaeval  conception  of  an 
angelic  neuter  host,  neither  for  heaven  nor  hell, 
not  on  the  side  of  Lucifer,  nor  yet  with  the 
starry  hosts — were  said  to  have  been  mirrored 
in  his  pictures.  Its  note  is  in  Citta  di  Vita,  in 
the  heresies  of  the  Albigenses,  and  it  may  well 
go  back  to  Origen.  Those  who  could  read  his 
paintings — and  there  were  clairvoyant  theolo- 
gians abroad  in  Florence — might  make  of  them 
what  they  would.  Painted  music  is  less  under- 
standable than  painted  heresy.  Matteo  Pal- 
mieri  is  reported  to  have  dragged  Botticelli  into 
dark  corners  of  disbelief;  there  was  in  the  Medi- 
cean  days  a  cruel  order  of  intelligence  that  de- 
lighted to  toy  with  the  vital  faith  and  ideals  of 
the  young.  A  nature  like  Botticelli's,  which 
frankly  surrendered  to  new  ideas  if  they  but 
wore  the  mask  of  subtlety,  was  swept,  no  doubt, 
away  in  the  eddying  cross  currents  of  Florentine 
intellectual  movements.  Mere  instinct  never 
moved  him  from  his  moral  anchorage,  for  he 
was  a  sexless  sort  of  man.  Always  the  vision. 
He  did  not  palter  with  the  voluptuous  frivolities 
of  his  fellow  artists,  yet  his  canvases  are  fever- 
ishly disquieting.  The  sting  of  the  flesh  is 
remote.  Love  is  transfigured,  though  not  spiri- 
tually, and  not  served  to  us  as  a  barren  parable, 
but  made  more  intense  by  the  breaking  down  of 
the  thin  partition  between  the  sexes;  a  consuming 
85 


BEDOUINS 

emotion,  not  quite  of  this  world  nor  of  the  next. 
However,  the  rebellion  that  stirred  in  the  bosom 
of  Botticelli  never  took  on  concrete  aspects. 
His  religious  subjects  are  Hellenized,  not  after 
the  sterner,  more  inflexible  method  of  Mantegna, 
but  resembling  those  of  a  philosophic  Athenian 
who  has  read  and  comprehended  Dante.  His 
illustrations  show  us  a  different  Dante,  one  who 
might  not  have  altogether  pleased  that  gloomy 
exile.  The  transpositions  of  the  Divine  Comedy 
by  William  Blake  seem  to  sound  the  depths; 
Botticelli,  notwithstanding  the  grace  of  his 
"baby  Centaurs"  and  the  wreathed  car  of  Bea- 
trice, is  the  profounder  man  of  the  pair. 

His  life,  veiled  toward  the  last,  was  not  happy, 
although  he  was  recognized  as  a  great  painter. 
Watteau  concealed  a  cankering  secret;  so  Botti- 
celli. Melancholy  is  the  base  of  the  Florentine's 
work.  As  a  young  man  he  created  in  joy  and 
freedom;  but  the  wings  of  Diirer's  Bat  were  out- 
stretched over  his  brooding  head.  Melencolia ! 
He  could  ask  if  there  is  anything  sadder  under 
the  sun  than  a  soul  incapable  of  sadness.  There 
is  more  poignant  music  in  his  Primavera,  in  the 
weary,  indifferent  countenances  of  his  lean, 
neuropathic  Madonnas — Pater  calls  them  "  pee- 
vish " — in  his  Venus  at  the  Uffizi,  than  in  the 
paintings  of  any  other  Renaissance  artist.  The 
veils  are  there,  the  consoling  veils  of  an  exquisite 
art,  which  are  missing  in  the  lacerated  and  realis- 
tic holy  folk  of  the  Flemish  Primitives.  Joyful- 
86 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

ness  cannot  be  denied  Botticelli;  but  it  is  not 
the  golden  joy  of  Giorgione;  "Big  George  of 
Castelfranco."  An  emaciated  music  emanates 
from  the  eyes  of  that  sad,  restless  Venus,  to 
whom  love  has  become  a  scourge  of  sense  and 
spirit.  Music?  Yes,  there  is  the  "colored- 
hearing"  of  Mendoza.  The  canvases  of  Bot- 
ticelli sound  the  opalescent  overtones  of  an 
unearthly  composition.  Is  this  Spring,  this 
tender,  tremulous  virgin,  whose  right  hand, 
deprecatingly  raised,  signals  as  a  conductor  from 
invisible  orchestra  its  rhythms?  Hermes,  su- 
premely impassive,  hand  on  thigh,  plucks  the 
fruit  as  the  eternal  trio  of  maidens  with  woven 
paces  tread  the  measures  of  a  dance  we  but 
overhear.  Garlanded  in  blossoms,  a  glorious 
girl  keeps  time  with  the  pulsing  atmospheric 
moods;  her  gesture,  surely  a  divine  one,  shows 
her  casting  flowers  upon  the  richly  embroidered 
floor  of  the  earth.  The  light  niters  through  the 
thick  trees,  its  rifts  as  rigid  as  a  candle.  The 
nymph  in  the  brake  is  threatening.  Another 
epicene  creature  flies  by  her.  Love  shoots  his 
bolt  in  mid-air.  Is  it  from  Paphos  or  Mitylene  ? 
What  the  fable?  Music  plucked  down  from 
vibrating  skies,  music  made  visible.  A  mere 
masque,  laden  with  the  prim,  sweet  allegories  of 
the  day,  it  is  not.  That  blunt  soul,  Vasari,  saw 
at  best  its  surfaces.  The  poet  Politian  got 
closer  to  the  core.  Centuries  later  our  percep- 
tions sharpened  by  the  stations  traversed  of  sor- 
87 


BEDOUINS 

row  and  experience,  lend  to  this  immortal  canvas 
a  m'ore  sympathetic,  less  literal  interpretation. 

There  is  music,  too,  in  the  Anadyomene  of 
the  Uffizi.  Still  stranger  music.  Those  sudden 
little  waves  that  lap  an  immemorial  strand; 
that  shimmering  shell,  its  fan-spokes  converging 
to  the  parted  feet  of  the  goddess;  her  hieratic 
pose,  its  modesty  symbolic,  the  hair  that  ser- 
pentines about  her  foam-born  face,  thin  shoulders 
that  slope  into  delicious  arms;  the  Japanese 
group  blowing  tiny  gem-like  buds  with  their 
puffed-out  cheeks;  the  rhythmic  female  on  tip- 
toe offering  her  mantle  to  Venus;  and  enveloping 
all  are  vernal  breezes,  the  wind  that  weeps  in 
little  corners,  unseen,  yet  sensed,  on  every  inch 
of  the  picture — what  are  these  mundane  things 
but  the  music  of  an  art,  original  at  its  birth,  and 
since  never  reborn  ?  The  larger,  simpler,  curved 
rhythms  of  the  greater  men,  Michelangelo,  Da 
Vinci,  Shakespeare,  Beethoven,  are  not  in  Botti- 
celli. Nevertheless,  his  voice  is  irresistible. 

Modern  as  is  his  spirit,  as  modern  as  Watteau, 
Chopin,  or  Shelley,  he  is  no  less  ethereal;  ethe- 
real and  also  realistic.  We  can  trace  his  artistic 
ancestry;  but  what  he  became  no  man  could 
have  predicted.  Technically,  as  one  critic  has 
written,  "he  was  the  first  to  understand  the 
charm  of  silhouettes,  the  first  to  linger  in  ex- 
pressing the  joining  of  the  arm  and  body,  the 
flexibility  of  the  hips,  the  roundness  of  the 
shoulder,  the  elegance  of  the  leg,  the  little 
88 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

shadow  that  marks  the  springing  of  the  neck, 
and,  above  all,  the  carving  of  the  hand;  but 
even  more,  he  understood  "le  prestige  insolent 
des  grands  yeux." 

Pater  found  his  color  cold  and  cadaverous, 
"and  yet  the  more  you  come  to  understand 
what  imaginative  coloring  really  is,  that  all 
color  is  no  mere  delightful  quality  of  natural 
things,  but  a  spirit  upon  them  by  which  they 
become  expressive  to  the  spirit,  the  better  you 
like  this  peculiar  quality  of  color."  Bernard 
Berenson  goes  further.  To  him  the  entire  can- 
vas, Venus  Rising  from  the  Sea,  presents  us 
with  the  quintessence  of  all  that  is  pleasurable 
to  our  imagination  of  touch  and  movement.  .  .  . 
The  vivid  appeal  to  our  tactile  sense,  the  life- 
communicating  motion  is  always  there.  And 
writing  of  the  Pallas  in  the  Pitti  galleries,  he 
most  eloquently  declares:  "As  to  the  hair — 
imagine  shapes  having  the  supreme  life  of  line 
you  may  see  in  the  contours  of  licking  flames, 
and  yet  possessed  of  all  the  plasticity  of  some- 
thing which  caresses  the  hand  that  models  it  to 
its  own  desire!"  And,  after  speaking  of  Botti- 
celli's stimulating  line,  he  continues:  "Imagine 
an  art  made  up  entirely  of  these  quintessences 
of  movement-values  and  you  will  have  some- 
thing that  holds  the  same  relation  to  represen- 
tation that  music  holds  to  speech — and  this  art 
exists  and  is  called  lineal  decoration.  In  this 
art  of  arts  Sandro  Botticelli  may  have  had 
89 


'BEDOUINS 

rivals  in  Japan  and  elsewhere  in  the  East,  but 
in  Europe  never !  .  .  .  He  is  the  greatest  mas- 
ter of  lineal  design  that  Europe  ever  had." 

Again,  painted  music;  not  the  sounding  sym- 
bolism of  the  emotions,  but  the  abstract  music 
of  design.  Nevertheless,  the  appeal  of  Botti- 
celli is  auditive.  Other  painters  have  spun 
more  intricate,  more  beautiful  webs;  have  made 
more  sensuous  color-music;  but  the  subtle  sara- 
bands of  Botticelli  they  have  not  composed. 
Here  is  a  problem  for  the  psychiatrist.  In 
paint,  manifestations  of  this  order  could  be  set 
down  to  mental  lesion;  that  is  how  Maurice 
Spronck  classifies  the  sensation.  He  studied  it 
in  the  writings  of  the  Goncourts  and  Flaubert. 
The  giant  of  Croisset  told  the  Goncourts  that 
to  him  Salammbo  was  purple  and  L'Education 
Sentimentale  grey,  Carthage  and  Paris.  A  char- 
acteristic fancy.  But  why  is  it  that  scientific 
gentlemen,  who  predicate  genius  as  eye-strain, 
do  not  reprove  poets  for  their  sensibility  to  the 
sound  of  words,  to  the  shape  and  cadence  of  the 
phrase?  It  would  appear  that  only  prose-men 
are  the  culpable  ones  if  they  overhear  the  harp- 
ing of  invisible  harps  from  Ibsen's  Steeplejacks, 
or  describe  the  color  of  the  thoughts  of  Zara- 
thustra.  In  reality,  not  one  but  thousands  of 
people  listen  in  the  chill  galleries  of  Florence  to 
the  sweet,  nervous  music  of  Botticelli.  This 
testimony  of  the  years  is  for  the  dissenters  to 
explain.  "Fantastico,  Stravagante,"  as  Vasari 
nicknamed  Botticelli,  has  literally  created  an 
90 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

audience  which  learned  to  use  its  eyes  as  he  did, 
fantastically  and  extravagantly. 

He  passed  through  the  three  stages  dear  to 
arbitrary  criticism.  Serene  in  his  youthful 
years;  troubled,  voluptuous,  and  visionary  dur- 
ing the  Medicean  period;  sombre,  mystic,  a 
convert  to  Savonarola  at  the  end.  He  traversed 
a  great  crisis  not  untouched.  Certain  political 
assassinations  and  the  Pazzi  conspiracy  hurt 
him  to  the  quick.  He  noted  the  turbulence  of 
Rome  and  Florence,  saw  behind  the  gayly  tinted 
arras  of  the  Renaissance  the  sinister  figures 
of  supermen  and  criminals.  He  never  married. 
When  Tommaso  Soderini  begged  him  to  take  a 
wife  he  responded:  "The  other  night  I  dreamed 
I  was  married.  I  awoke  in  such  horror  and 
chagrin  that  I  could  not  fall  asleep  again.  I 
arose  and  wandered  about  Florence  like  one 
possessed."  Evidently  not  intended  by  nature 
to  be  husband  or  father.  Like  Watteau,  like 
Baudelaire,  like  Nietzsche,  grand  visionaries 
abiding  on  the  thither  side  of  the  facile  joys 
of  life,  Botticelli  was  not  tempted  by  the 
usual  baits  of  happiness.  His  great  Calumnia, 
in  the  Uffizi,  might  be  construed  as  an  image 
of  the  soul  of  Botticelli.  Truth,  naked  and 
scorned — we  see  again  the  matchless  silhouette 
of  his  Venus — misunderstood  and  calumniated, 
stands  in  the  hall  of  a  vast  palace.  She  points 
to  the  heavens.  She  is  a  living  interrogation- 
mark.  Pilate's  question  ?  Botticelli  was  adored. 
But  understood?  An  enigmatic  malady  rav- 


BEDOUINS 

aged  his  innermost  being.  He  died  poor,  soli- 
tary, did  this  composer  of  luminous  chants  and 
pagan  poems,  this  moulder  of  exotic  dreams,  and 
of  angels  who  long  for  gods  other  than  those  of 
Good  and  Evil.  You  think  of  the  mystic  Joa- 
chim of  Flora  and  his  Third  Kingdom;  the 
Kingdom  of  the  Holy  Spirit  which  is  to  follow 
the  Kingdom  of  the  Father  and  the  Kingdom  of 
the  Son;  the  same  Joachim  who  declared  that 
the  true  ascetic  counts  nothing  of  his  own,  save 
only  his  harp.  "Qui  vere  monachus  est  nihil 
reputat  esse  suum  nisi  citharam."  And  you 
also  recall  St.  Anselm,  who  said  that  he  would 
rather  go  to  hell  sinless  than  be  in  heaven 
smudged  by  a  single  transgression. 

A  grievously  wounded,  timid  soul,  an  intruder 
at  the  portals  of  Paradise,  Botticelli  had  not 
the  courage  either  to  enter  or  withdraw.  He 
experienced  visions  that  rapt  him  into  the  ninth 
heaven,  but  when  he  reported  them  in  the  lan- 
guage of  his  design  his  harassed,  divided  spirit 
chilled  the  ardors  of  his  art.  In  sooth,  a  spiri- 
tual dichotomy.  And  thus  it  is  that  the  multi- 
tude does  not  worship  at  his  shrine  as  at  the 
shrine  of  Raphael.  Do  they  unconsciously  note 
the  adumbration  of  a  paganism  long  dead,  but 
revived  for  a  brief  Botticellian  hour?  Venus  or 
Madonna!  Adonais  or  Christ!  Under  which 
god?  The  artist  never  frankly  tells  us.  Leg- 
ends are  revived  of  fauns  turned  monks,  of  the 
gods  in  exile  and  at  servile  labor  in  a  world  that 
has  forgotten  them,  but  with  a  sublimated 
92 


PAINTED  MUSIC 

ecstasy  not  Heine's.  When  we  stand  before 
Botticelli  and  hear  the  pallid,  muted  music  of 
his  canvases  we  are  certain  that  the  last  word 
concerning  him  shall  not  be  uttered  until  his 
last  line  has  vanished;  even  then  his  archaic 
harmonies  may  reverberate  in  the  ears  of  man- 
kind. But  always  music  painted. 


93 


POE  AND  HIS  POLISH  CONTEM- 
PORARY 

IN  the  City  of  Boston,  January  19,  1809,  a 
son  was  born  to  David  and  Elizabeth  Poe.  On 
March  i,  1809,  in  the  village  of  Zelazowa-Wola, 
twenty-eight  English  miles  from  Warsaw,  in 
Poland,  a  son  was  born  to  Nicholas  and  Justina 
Chopin  (Chopena  or  Szop).  The  American  is 
known  to  the  world  as  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  the 
poet;  the  Pole  as  Frederic  Francois  Chopin,  the 
composer.  On  October  7,  1849,  Edgar  Poe  died, 
poor  and  neglected,  in  Washington  Hospital  at 
Baltimore,  and  on  October  17,  1849,  Frederic 
Chopin  expired  at  Paris  surrounded  by  loving 
friends,  among  whom  were  titled  ladies.  Tur- 
genev  has  said  there  were  at  least  one  hundred 
princesses  and  countesses  in  whose  arms  the 
most  wonderful  among  modern  composers 
yielded  up  his  soul.  Poe  and  Chopin  were  con- 
temporaries, and,  curious  coincidence,  two  su- 
premely melancholy  artists  of  the  Beautiful 
lived  and  died  almost  synchronously. 

My  most  enduring  artistic  passions  are  for 

the  music  of  Chopin  and  the  prose  of  Flaubert. 

In  company  with  the  cool,  clear  magic  of  a  Jan 

Vermeer  canvas,  that  of  the  Pole  and  French- 

94 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

man  grazes  perfection.  But  as  a  lad  Chopin 
quite  flooded  my  emotional  horizon.  I  had 
conceived  a  fantastic  comparison  between  Poe 
and  Chopin,  and  I  confess  I  was  slightly  piqued 
when  Ignace  Jan  Paderewski,  not  then  Premier 
of  Poland,  assured  me  that  Chopin  was  born 
in  the  year  1810,  and  not  the  year  earlier. 
The  date  chiselled  on  Chopin's  Paris  tomb  in 
Pere  Lachaise — a  sad  tribute  to  the  mediocre 
art  of  Clesinger,  who  married  Solange  Sand — is, 
after  all,  the  correct  one,  and  this  new  date, 
which  is  also  the  old,  is  inscribed  on  the  Chopin 
Memorial  at  Warsaw,  Poland.  I  shall  not  at- 
tempt to  dispute  the  claim;  even  the  most  pains- 
taking of  Chopin  biographers,  Prof.  Frederick 
Niecks,  admits  his  error.  The  latest  biog- 
raphy, said  to  be  definitive,  by  the  Polish  mu- 
sicograph,  Ferdinand  Hoesick,  I  have  not  seen; 
the  war  impeded  the  translation.  Yet  I  am 
fain  to  believe  that  too  many  parish  registers 
were  in  existence,  and  perhaps  the  next  one  that 
is  unearthed  may  give  as  new  dates  either  1808 
or  1811.  I  prefer  1809,  while  apologizing  for 
my  obstinacy.  Unhappily  for  future  investi- 
gators, Russian  Cossacks  in  1915  ravaged  with 
torch  and  sword  the  birthplace,  not  only  de- 
stroying the  Chopin  monument,  but  burning 
his  house  and  the  parish  church.  These  once 
highly  esteemed  vandals,  pogrom  heroes,  and 
butchers  of  thousands  of  helpless  Jewish  women, 
children,  and  old  men,  only  repeated  at  Zela- 
zowa-Wola  the  actions  of  their  forebears  at  War- 

95 


BEDOUINS 

saw  during  the  sanguinary  uprising  of  1831. 
The  correspondence  of  Chopin,  treasured  by  his 
sister,  Louise  Jedrzejewicza,  and  the  piano  of 
his  youth  were  completely  destroyed.  (Louise 
died  in  1855,  and  the  other  sister,  Isabella  Bar- 
cinska,  in  1881.) 

The  love  of  Poe  began  early  with  me.  My 
father  had  been  a  friend  of  the  poet's  in  Phila- 
delphia, and  a  member  of  the  Poe  circle  during 
the  forties  of  the  last  century;  " roaring  forties, 
indeed.  That  prime  old  comedian,  Billy  Burton, 
the  ideal  Falstaff  of  his  day;  John  Sartain,  the 
engraver,  and  father  of  William  Sartain,  the 
painter;  Judge  Conrad,  who  could  move  his 
listeners  to  tears  when  he  recited  the  Lord's 
Prayer;  the  elder  Booth,  a  noble  tragedian  much 
given  to  drink;  Graham,  the  publisher,  and  sev- 
eral others  whose  names  have  escaped  my  mem- 
ory, composed  this  interesting  group.  In  his 
memoirs  John  Sartain  has  written  of  Poe  and 
of  a  certain  wild  midnight  walk  in  Fairmount 
Park.  I  remember  the  elder  Sartain  as  an  in- 
frequent visitor  at  our  house,  and  I  also  remem- 
ber how  I  hung  on  his  words  when  he  spoke  of 
Poe.  My  father  told  me  that  Poe  would  be- 
come a  raving  maniac  after  a  thimbleful  of 
brandy,  so  sensitive  was  his  cerebral  mecha- 
nism. But  other  authorities  contradict  this 
theory.  Poe  had  been  often  seen  to  toss  off 
a  tumblerful  of  cognac  neat.  Last  year  at 
Atlantic  City  I  met  Mr.  Hutzler,  a  well-known 
merchant  of  Baltimore,  a  spry  young  octo- 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

genarian  and  a  seasoned  raconteur.  He  told 
me,  and  in  a  vivid  manner,  of  seeing  Edgar 
Poe  and  Junius  Brutus  Booth  hanging  on  to 
the  same  lamp-post,  both  helplessly  drunk  at 
midday.  This  happened  about  1845,  as  the  boys, 
Mr.  Hutzler  among  the  rest,  trooped  out  to 
dinner  from  the  public  school  on  Holiday  Street. 
Mr.  Hutzler's  memory  has  a  mirror-like  clear- 
ness, and  he  described  the  occurrence  as  if  it 
had  happened  yesterday.  Like  irreverent  school- 
boys, they  surrounded  the  greatest  living  Shake- 
spearean actor  and  the  greatest  American  poet 
and  mocked  at  them. 

We  lived  on  North  Seventh  Street,  and  twice 
a  day,  on  my  trip  to  and  from  school,  I  passed 
the  house  where  Poe  had  lived  during  his  sojourn 
in  Philadelphia,  from  1838  to  1844.  That  house 
I  should  not  have  been  able  to  locate  to-day  if 
my  friend,  Christopher  Morley  (charming  writer, 
with  a  name  that  recalls  spacious  Elizabethan 
times:  Kit  Morley !),  hadn't  described  it.  This 
house,  in  which  Poe  wrote  The  Raven  and  The 
Gold  Bug,  is  at  the  northwest  corner  of  Sev- 
enth and  Brandywine  Streets.  Another  critic 
friend,  Albert  Mordell,  assures  me  that  the  old 
pear-tree  in  the  back  yard  still  bears  fruit  for 
the  present  resident,  Mrs.  Owens.  The  house 
is  the  rear  building  of  another  numbered  530 
North  Seventh  Street.  Mr.  Mordell  sent  me  a 
photograph  which  shows  a  typical  Philadelphia 
red  brick  structure  with  white  shutters  and 
marble  steps.  I  have  heard  of  many  spots 
97 


BEDOUINS 

where  Poe  wrote  The  Raven,  Fordham  among 
the  rest,  but  as  boys  we  told  ourselves  when 
we  stared  at  the  old  building:  "Poe  wrote  his 
Raven  and  Gold  Bug  there !"  It  is  something 
to  remember  in  these  piping  times  of  hypocrisy 
and  universal  hatred  of  art,  music,  and  litera- 
ture. 

It  would  be  a  strained  parallel  to  compare 
Poe  with  Chopin  at  all  points;  nevertheless, 
chronological  coincidences  are  not  the  only  com- 
parisons that  might  be  instituted  without  exag- 
geration. True,  the  roots  of  Chopin's  culture 
were  more  cosmopolitan,  more  richly  nurtured 
than  Poe's;  the  poet,  like  an  air-plant,  found  his 
spiritual  sustenance  from  sources  unknown  to 
the  America  of  his  day.  Of  Poe's  intellectual 
ancestry,  however,  we  may  form  some  concep- 
tion, though  his  learning  was  not  profound, 
despite  his  copious  quotations  from  half-forgot- 
ten and  recondite  authors,  Glanvil,  for  example. 
Nevertheless,  the  matchless  lines,  "Helen,  thy 
beauty  is  to  me  like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore," 
.  .  .  were  struck  off  in  the  fire  of  a  boyhood 
passion.  Chopin  had  a  careful  training  under 
the  eye  of  his  Polish  teacher,  Eisner;  but  who 
could  have  taught  him  how  to  compose  his 
Opus  2,  the  Variations  on  Mozart's  La  ci 
darem  la  mano?  Both  Poe  and  Chopin  were 
full-fledged  artists  from  the  beginning,  their  in- 
dividualities and  limitations  sharply  defined. 
Perhaps  the  most  exquisite  music  penned  by 
Poe  is  this  same  Helen,  while  the  first  mazourka 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

of  Chopin  stamps  him  as  an  original  poet.  In 
the  later  productions  of  these  men  there  is  more 
than  a  savor  of  morbidity.  Consider  the  Fan- 
taisie-Polonaise,  Opus  61,  with  its  most  musical, 
most  melancholy  cadences;  or  the  F  minor  Ma- 
zourka,  composed  during  the  last  illness  of  Cho- 
pin; a  sick  brain  betrays  itself  in  the  rhythmic 
insistence  of  the  theme,  a  soul-weary  Where- 
fore? In  the  haunting  repetitions  and  harmo- 
nies of  Ulalume  there  is  a  poetic  analogue.  This 
poem,  in  which  sense  swoons  into  sound,  pos- 
sesses a  richness  of  color  and  rhythmic  accent 
that  betoken  the  mentality  of  a  poet  whose  brain 
is  perilously  unhinged.  If  alcohol  produced  this 
condition,  then  might  a  grateful  world  erect 
altars  to  such  a  wondrous  god  of  evocation. 
Prohibition  has  not  thus  far  produced  a  Poe. 
But  he  wasn't  the  creation  of  either  alcohol  or 
drugs,  though  they  were  contributory  causes; 
they  prodded  his  cortical  cells  into  abnormal 
activity,  made  leap  the  neuronic  filaments  with 
surprising  consequences.  No,  a  profound  cere- 
bral lesion  was  the  real  reason  why  Poe  resorted 
to  brandy  to  soothe  his  exacerbated  nerves,  and 
not  because  he  drank  did  he  go  to  wrack  and 
ruin.  His  "case"  is  like  Baudelaire's  and 
E.  T.  W.  Hoffmann's;  not  to  mention  the  names 
of  James  Clarence  Mangan  and  Monticelli,  one 
the  singer  of  Dark  Rosaleen,  the  other  that 
master  of  gorgeous  hues,  fantasies  of  enchanted 
lands  and  crumbling  linear  designs. 
Poe,  then,  like  Chopin,  did  not  die  too  soon. 
99 


BEDOUINS 

Neurotic  natures,  they  lived  their  lives  with  the 
intensity  which  Walter  Pater  has  declared  is  the 
true  existence.  "To  burn  always  with  this 
hard,  gem-like  flame,  to  maintain  this  ecstasy, 
is  success  in  life.  Failure  is  to  form  habits. " 
Alas !  that  way  madness  lies  for  the  majority  of 
mankind,  notwithstanding  the  aesthetic  exhor- 
tation of  Pater.  Poe  and  Chopin  fulfilled  the 
Pater  conditions  during  their  brief  sojourn  on 
our  parent  planet.  They  ever  burned  with  the 
flame  of  genius,  and  that  flame  devoured  them. 
They  were  not  citizens  of  moral  repute.  Nor 
did  they  accumulate  "mortal  pelf."  They 
failed  to  form  habits,  and  while  the  psychic 
delicacy  of  Chopin  proved  a  barrier  against 
self-indulgence  of  the  grosser  sort,  he  contrived 
to  outrage  social  and  ethical  canons  even 
in  tolerant  Paris.  The  influence  of  George 
Sand,  her  ascendancy  over  his  volition,  worked 
evil  and  unhappiness.  The  delicate  porcelain  of 
his  genius  could  not  float  down-stream  in  com- 
pany with  her  brassy  ware  without  ensuing 
disaster  for  the  finer  of  the  twain.  Alcoholic 
neurosis  did  not  trouble  him,  but  he  was  tuber- 
cular, and  that  malady  is  more  fatal  than  alco- 
holism. Poe  was  not  precisely  a  drunkard; 
probably  masked  epilepsy  accounts  for  his  va- 
garies; such  victims  are  periodical  dipsomaniacs, 
" circulates"  is  the  term  of  the  psychiatrists. 
His  personality  was  winning,  his  speech  electric, 
his  eye  alight  with  genius;  but,  then,  the  obverse 
of  the  medal !  A  sad,  slouching  creature,  with 
100 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

a  cynic's  sneer,  a  bitter  tongue  which  lashed 
friend  and  foe  alike,  a  gambler,  a  libertine — 
what  has  this  unhappy  poet  not  been  called? 
Baudelaire  asked  whether  the  critical  hyenas 
could  not  have  been  prevented  from  defacing 
the  tomb  of  Poe.  (He  used  Rabelaisian  lan- 
guage in  the  original  French.)  Charles  Baude- 
laire, a  spiritual  double  of  Poe,  was  another  un- 
happy wraith  of  genius,  and  of  the  same  choir 
of  self-lacerated  and  damned  souls. 

Fancy  Poe  and  Chopin  in  New  York  during 
the  prosaic  atmosphere  of  those  days !  If  Chopin 
had  not  achieved  artistic  success  at  the  Soiree 
of  Prince  Radziwill  in  Paris,  1831,  he  would 
probably  have  gone  to  America,  where  he  might 
have  met  Poe.  He  had  declared  his  intention 
to  leave  Paris  for  New  York,  and  his  passport 
was  vised  "passing  through."  Poe  and  Chopin 
conversing!  The  idea  is  rather  disquieting. 
Stendhal,  not  hoodwinked  by  Chateaubriand, 
with  his  purple  phrases  and  poetic  visions  of 
virgin  forests  and  sweet  Indian  girls  in  an  im- 
possible Louisiana,  declared  that  America  was 
materialistic  beyond  hope  of  redemption.  Tal- 
leyrand knew  better.  However,  it  was  bet- 
ter for  the  artistic  development  of  the  Po- 
lish composer  that  he  remained  in  the  Old 
World.  Think  of  Chopin  giving  piano  les- 
sons to  the  daughters  of  the  New-Rich  at 
the  fashionable  Battery,  and  Poe  encountering 
him  at  some  conversazione — they  had  conver- 
saziones then — and  propounding  to  him  Heine- 
101 


BEDOUINS 

like  questions:  Are  the  roses  at  home  still  in 
their  flame-hued  pride?    Do  the  trees  sing  as 
beautifully  as  ever  in  the  moonlight  ?    Are  hum- 
ming-birds  and   star-dust — Francesca   Astra — 
still  as  rare  as  ambergris  ?    At  a  glance  Poe  and 
Chopin  would  have  sympathized.     In  sensibility 
the  American  was  not  inferior  to  the  Pole.    Poe 
would  have  felt  the  "drummed  tears"  in  the 
playing  of  Chopin,  and  in  turn  Chopin  would 
not  have  failed  to  divine  the  vibrations  of  Poe's 
high-strung  nature.     Both  men  were  mystics, 
were  seers.    What  a  meeting  that  would  have 
been;  yet  inevitable  misery  might  have  come  to 
the  Pole  in  unsympathetic  New  York.    A  dif- 
ferent tale  if  Poe  had  gone  to  Paris  and  enjoyed 
a  meed  of  artistic  success.    Baudelaire,  who 
was  born  in  April,  1821,  therefore  a  young  chap 
in  1845,  would  have  known  him  and,  congenial 
souls,  they  would  surely  have  gone  to  the  devil 
quicker     than    apart.     Baudelaire    and    Poe! 
There's  a  marvellous  combination  for  you  of 
fantasy,  moonlight,  rotten  nerves,  hasheesh,  and 
alcohol!    The  fine  flower  of  the  genius  of  Poe 
might  have  bloomed  more  fragrantly  on  French 
soil;  perhaps  with  the  added  note  of  depravity 
not  in  his  sexless  creations,  and  so  corroding  a 
note  in  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai.    Who  may  dare  say ! 
But  then  we  might  not  have  had  the  sinister 
melancholia,  so  sweetly  despairing,  so  despair- 
ingly sweet,  that  we  enjoy  in  the  real  Poe. 

The  culture  of  Chopin  was  not  of  a  finer  stamp 
than  Poe's,  nor  was  his  range  so  wide.    In  their 
102 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

intellectual  sympathies  both  were  rather  narrow, 
though  intense  to  an  emotional  poignancy,  and 
both  were  remarkable  in  mood- versatility.  B orn 
aristocrats,  purple  raiment  became  them  well. 
Both  were  sadly  deficient  in  planturous  humor 
and  the  Attic  salt  that  conserves  the  self-mock- 
ery of  Heine.  Irony  they  possessed  to  a  super- 
lative degree.  Both  created  rhythmic  beauty, 
evoked  the  charm  of  evanescence.  A  crepuscu- 
lar art;  the  notations  of  twilit  souls  and  the 
"  October  of  the  sensations."  Both  were  at 
their  best  in  smaller  artistic  forms.  When  either 
one  spreads  his  pinions  for  symphonic  flight  we 
think  of  Matthew  Arnold's  interpretation  of 
Shelley:  "beating  in  the  void  his  luminous  wings 
in  vain."  Which  phrase  truly  is  of  Mat's  own 
making,  yet  somehow  misses  the  essential  Shel- 
ley. Poe  and  Chopin  supremely  mastered  their 
intellectual  instruments.  Artificers  in  precious 
cameos,  they  are  of  an  artistic  consanguinity 
because  of  their  extraordinary  absorption  in  the 
Beautiful.  Poe  wrote  in  English,  but  was  he 
really  as  American  as  Hawthorne  and  Emerson 
were  American?  His  verse  and  prose  depict 
characters  and  landscapes  that  belong  to  No 
Man's  Land,  in  that  mystic  region  east  of  the 
sun,  west  of  the  moon.  The  American  scene 
was  unsympathetic  to  him,  and  he  refused 
to  become  even  morally  acclimated.  His  El- 
dorado is  "over  the  mountains  of  the  moon, 
down  the  valley  of  the  shadow."  His  crea- 
tions are  bodiless;  shadow  of  shadows,  the 


BEDOUINS 

incarnation  of  Silence,  set  forth  in  spectral 
speech.  Unlike  any  other  native-born  writer, 
he  sounds  better  in  a  French  garb;  the  Baude- 
laire translations  improve  his  style,  and  Stephane 
Mallarme  has  accomplished  an  almost  miracu- 
lous transposition  of  Ulalume.  (The  Raven — 
Le  Corbeau — by  the  same  master  I  do  not  care 
for  as  much,  and  with  its  refrain,  "  Jamais  plus ! " 
is  not  so  musically  sonorous  as  "Nevermore!") 
Henry  Beyle-Stendhal  wrote  in  his  witty, 
malicious  manner  that  "Romanticism  is  the  art 
of  presenting  to  the  people  literary  works  which 
in  the  actual  state  of  their  habitudes  and  beliefs 
are  capable  of  giving  the  greatest  possible  plea- 
sure; Classicism,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  art  of 
presenting  literature  which  gave  the  greatest 
possible  pleasure  to  their  great-grandfathers." 
Stendhal  is  half  right.  A  Classic  is  sometimes 
a  dead  Romantic.  But  Poe  and  Chopin  remain 
invincibly  Romantic,  yet  are  Classics.  Chopin 
is  more  human  than  Poe,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
patriotic.  His  polonaises  are  "cannons  buried 
in  flowers,"  his  psychic  bravery  overflows  in  the 
Revolutionary  Etude.  He  is  Chopin.  And  he 
is  also  Poland.  Like  the  national  poet,  Adam 
Mickiewicz,  he  struck  many  human  chords, 
though  some  of  his  melodies  could  dwell  in  Poe's 
"misty  mid-region  of  Weir,"  where  Beauty 
boasts  an  icy  reign.  There  is  a  disturbing 
dissonance  in  the  Poe-Chopin  case:  Poe  was  a 
man  without  a  country;  Chopin  had  the  price- 
less possession  of  Poland.  On  his  heart  was 
104 


POE'S  POLISH  CONTEMPORARY 

engraved  "Poland."  The  love  of  Frederic 
Chopin  for  his  native  land  dowered  him  with  a 
profounder  nature  than  the  Lucifer  of  Amer- 
ican poetry,  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  But  what  en- 
igmatic, beautiful  souls ! 


105 


XI 
GEORGE  LUKS 

OF  course,  I  knew  in  a  vague  way  where 
Edgecombe  Road  and  Jumel  Place  spotted  the 
map,  for  I  am  a  seasoned  Manhattan  cockney. 
But,  after  all,  I  mixed  up  the  Jumel  Mansion 
and  the  house  of  George  Luks,  and  so  I  asked 
that  painter  for  some  travel  indications.  He 
sent  me  a  map  that  was  clarity  itself.  All  I 
had  to  do  was  to  sit  in  the  Broadway  subway 
till  I  reached  One  Hundred  and  Sixty-eighth 
Street;  then  take  the  elevator — as  deep  down  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  as  if  in  the  London  Un- 
derground; on  reaching  the  sidewalk  proceed 
northward  to  One  Hundred  and  Seventieth 
Street — the  little  arrows  on  the  chart  are  marked ; 
then  eastward  (another  arrow)  and  behold !  Am- 
sterdam Avenue.  There  you  enter  a  delicates- 
sen bureau  and  tactfully  inquire  after  Edge- 
combe  Road. 

I  did  all  these  things,  and  was  recently  told 
on  a  fine,  breezy  afternoon  by  a  foreign  youth 
that  the  road  was  in  front  of  my  face,  as  was 
Highbridge  Park;  around  the  corner  was  Jumel 
Place.  Enfin!  I  said  to  the  polite  guide,  and 
nosed  my  way  till  I  saw  an  ideal  cottage— 
though  rather  large  for  a  cottage— with  a  big 
1 06 


GEORGE  LUKS 

studio  window  facing  the  north.  Recalling 
what  Luks  had  often  said — "To  hades  with  a 
north  light;  a  man  ought  to  be  able  to  paint  in 
a  cellar!" — I  wondered.  Then  I  traversed  a 
garden  and  broke  into  the  house,  a  burglar, 
armed  with  a  pen  and  a  bagful  of  question- 
marks.  It  was  the  home  of  the  only  George 
Luks,  who,  happy  boy,  has  a  painting  tempera- 
ment with  an  "angel  in  the  house"  to  protect 
him  from  the  contact  of  a  world  of  cruel  critics, 
and  is  also  the  possessor  of  the  disposition  de- 
scribed as  "bubbling."  His  favorite  exclama- 
tion is:  "Yours  for  happiness."  He  means  it. 
It  is  the  leading-motive  of  his  life. 

Here  are  domestic  comfort,  a  north  light,  and 
plenty  of  models  across  the  road  in  the  open 
air,  splashed  by  sunshine  or  shadowed  by  trees; 
babies,  goats,  nurse-girls,  park  loafers,  police- 
men, lazy  pedestrians,  noisy  boys,  nice  little 
girls  with  hoops,  and  the  inevitable  sparrows. 
Rocks  are  in  abundance.  The  landscape  "com- 
poses" itself.  And  you  are  not  surprised,  when 
ushered  into  the  great  studio  on  the  second 
floor,  to  be  confronted  by  canvases  registering 
various  phases  of  the  vibrating  world  hard-by. 
Since  he  moved  from  down-town  the  painter  is 
becoming  more  of  a  plein-airiste. 

Luks  doesn't  wander  afar  for  subjects.  He 
still  loves  the  familiar,  the  homely,  the  simple. 
It  had  been  several  years  since  I  saw  his  work. 
Occasionally  in  Holland  I  would  run  across  a 
canvas  by  Jan  Steen,  Adrien  Brouwer,  or  even 
107 


BEDOUINS 

Hals,  that  recalled  Luks.  His  artistic  affinities 
are  Dutch  rather  than  French;  above  all,  he  is 
an  American  painter  to  his  blunt  finger-tips. 
Beginning  in  the  field  of  illustration,  he  was 
plunged  up  to  his  eyes  in  New  York  life.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  Arthur  Brisbane  who  first  suggested 
to  him  that  he  should  go  in  for  painting  in  oils. 

He  went  to  Diisseldorf  and  survived  that  try- 
ing experience — a  school  that  would  submerge  a 
Manet.  Paris  followed.  But  George  is  not  a 
product  of  the  schools.  Theories  sit  lightly  on 
his  mercurial  shoulders.  He  loathes  "move- 
ments," and  refers  to  the  "new"  men,  cubists, 
lamp-post  impressionists,  and  futurists  in  words 
that  curdle  the  blood.  Indeed,  his  vocabulary 
is  as  variegated  and  picturesque  as  his  palette. 
As  for  the  personality  of  the  man — well,  it  is 
absolutely  impossible  to  set  down  on  paper  any 
adequate  description  of  him.  He  is  Puck.  He 
is  Caliban.  He  is  Falstaff.  He  is  a  tornado. 
He  is  sentimental.  He  can  sigh  like  a  lover, 
and  curse  like  a  trooper.  Sometimes  you  won- 
der over  his  versatility;  a  character  actor,  a  low 
comedian,  even  song-and-dance  man,  a  poet,  a 
profound  sympathizer  with  human  misery,  and 
a  human  orchestra.  The  vitality  of  him ! 

Perhaps  the  simile  of  a  man-orchestra  is  the 
most  fitting.  Did  you  ever  see  and  hear  those 
curious  creatures,  less  rare  in  our  streets  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago  than  now?  I  remem- 
ber one  in  a  small  French  city,  a  white-haired 
fellow  who,  with  fife,  cymbals,  bells,  concertinas 
108 


GEORGE  LUKS 

— he  wore  two  strapped  under  either  arm — at 
times  fiddles,  made  epileptic  music  as  he  quivered 
and  danced,  wriggled  and  shook  his  skull.  The 
big  drum  was  fastened  to  his  back,  upon  its  top 
were  cymbals.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  pavilion 
hung  with  bells  that  pealed  when  he  twisted  his 
long  skinny  neck.  He  carried  a  weather-worn 
violin  with  a  string  or  two  missing;  while  a  pipe 
that  might  have  been  a  clarinet  years  before 
emitted  but  cackling  tones  from  his  thin  lips. 
By  some  incomprehensible  co-ordination  of  mus- 
cular movements  he  contrived  simultaneously 
to  sound  his  armory  of  instruments;  and  the 
whistling,  screeching,  scratching,  drumming, 
wheezing,  and  tinkling  of  metal  were  appalling. 
But  it  was  rhythmic,  and  at  intervals  the  edge 
of  a  tune  might  be  discerned  sharply  cutting 
through  the  dense  cloud  of  vibrations,  like  the 
prow  of  a  boat  cleaving  a  fog.  And  the  rever- 
berating music  swelled,  multifarious  and  amaz- 
ing, as  if  a  military  band,  from  piccolo  to  drum, 
were  about  to  descend  upon  the  town.  A  clat- 
ter and  bang,  a  sweet  droning  and  shrill  scrap- 
ing were  heard,  as  the  old  chap  alternately 
limped  and  danced  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway. 
Now,  George  Luks  is  not  venerable;  he  is  a 
comparatively  young  man,  yet  he  reminds  me 
of  that  human  orchestra.  It  is  an  image  of 
lithe  activity  that  he  suggests.  What  has  this 
to  do  with  his  art?  Much.  It  is  rhythmic, 
many-colored,  intensely  alive,  charged  with 
character  and  saturated  with  humanity,  not 
109 


BEDOUINS 

forgetting  humor.  Pathos  is  not  absent.  In 
his  latest  productions  I  noted  with  satisfaction 
more  repose,  deeper  feeling,  more  solicitude  for 
his  surfaces,  the  modulation  of  tones;  and  the 
same  old  riotous  joy  in  color  for  color's  sake. 
Yes,  in  his  themes  he  still  belongs  to  the  illus- 
trators. He  seldom  tells  a  definite  story,  but 
there  is  no  mistaking  his  point  of  view. 

I  saw  portraits  of  girls  in  masquerade  that 
were  expressed  in  terms  of  beautiful  paint.  A 
little  red-head,  the  sheer  tonal  charm  immedi- 
ate, made  me  think  of  both  Henner  and  Whistler. 
Then  a  Hals-like  head,  virile  and  sincere;  a  sen- 
sitively limned  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  his 
niece;  a  large  canvas;  charming  girls  under 
umbrageous  trees,  a  veritable  gamut  of  greens; 
an  old  woman  who  simply  cried  to  be  framed 
and  exhibited — how  many  things  did  I  not  stare 
at,  wondering  over  the  inexhaustible  fecundity, 
and  groaning  over  the  reckless  prodigality,  of 
this  gifted  man !  With  a  tithe  of  his  talent  and 
personal  quality  other  painters  have  achieved 
renown.  However,  he  is  not  lacking  in  honors. 
He  has  plenty  of  admirers,  plenty  of  commis- 
sions; yet  do  his  friends  wish  that  he  would 
sometimes  apply  the  brakes  to  that  fiery  tem- 
perament of  his  and  steer  his  bark  into  less 
tumultuous  waters.  His  art  would  gain  thereby 
in  finish,  and  distinction,  and  repose.  And  it 
might  also  die. 

I  once  called  George  Luks  "a  hand  and  an 
eye."  His  power  of  observation  is  great.  He 
no 


GEORGE  LUKS 

has  the  intensity  of  a  Spaniard  and  the  realism 
of  a  Dutchman.  He  is  both  exact  and  rebel- 
lious. Wherever  he  happens  to  pitch  his  tent 
becomes  his  studio;  preferably  in  the  open.  But 
the  East  Side  is  his  happy  hunting-ground.  In 
the  Yiddish  restaurants  where  old  men  with 
Biblical  heads  drink  coffee  and  slowly  converse; 
on  Houston  Street,  when,  apparently,  the  entire 
population  is  buying  fish  Shabbas- abend;  in 
vile  corners  where  the  refuse  of  humanity  drift, 
helpless,  hopeless — there  Luks  catches  some 
gleam  of  humor  or  pathos,  some  touch  that 
Gorky-like  brings  before  us  in  a  dozen  strokes 
of  the  brush  or  pencil  a  human  trait  which 
emerges  to  the  surface  of  this  vast  boiling  ket- 
tle like  a  spar  thrown  up  by  an  angry  sea.  All 
happiness  is  not  lost  in  those  mean  streets;  a 
rift  of  wintry  sunlight,  a  stray  tune  from  some 
wheezy  barrel-organ,  and  two  children  waltz 
with  an  unconscious  zest  of  life  that  will  sur- 
vive until  they  are  nonogenarians.  Of  such 
contrasts  Luks  is  the  master. 

His  Spielers  is  like  a  quivering  page  from — 
from  whom  ?  The  East  Side  is  yet  to  boast  its 
Dickens.  And  Dickens  would  have  enjoyed 
the  picture  of  the  little  tousled  Irish  girl,  with 
her  red  locks,  who  dances  with  the  pretty  flaxen- 
haired  German  child,  surely  a  baker's  daughter 
from  Avenue  B.  Now,  you  might  suppose  that 
this  vivid  art,  this  painting  which  has  caught 
and  retained  the  primal  jolt  and  rhythm  of  the 
sketch,  must  be  necessarily  rude  and  unscientific 
in 


BEDOUINS 

in  technique.  It  is  the  reverse.  This  particu- 
lar picture  is  full  of  delicious  tonalities.  The 
head  of  the  blonde  girl  might  be  from  an  English 
eighteenth-century  master,  and  the  air — it  fills 
the  spaces  with  a  fluid  caress. 

And  his  Little  Gray  Girl,  a  poor  wisp  of  flesh 
wearing  a  grotesque  shawl  and  hat,  shivering  in 
the  chill  of  a  gloomy  evening,  sounds  touching 
music.  The  note  of  sentiment  is  not  forced; 
indeed,  the  passages  of  paint  first  catch  the 
eye,  modulations  of  grays  and  blacks  that  tell 
of  the  artist's  sensitive  touch.  He  has  wanton 
humors.  He  paints  a  French  coachman,  life- 
size,  seated  at  a  cafe  table  about  to  swill  brandy. 
It  is  so  real  that  you  look  another  way.  Or  you 
are  shown  a  collection  of  beggars  who  were 
famous  a  few  years  ago  on  Sixth  Avenue,  Broad- 
way, the  east  side,  Fulton  Market:  Matches 
Mary,  the  Duchess,  the  tottering  Musician,  the 
old  Italian,  "Gooda  nighta,  Boss!"  and  a  host 
of  nocturnal  creatures  since  dead  or  in  the 
hospital,  perhaps  in  jail.  Luks  is  their  inter- 
preter. Nor  does  he  lean  to  the  pessimistic;  he 
is  a  believer  in  life  and  its  characteristic  beauty. 
The  pretty  he  abhors. 

There  is  the  Duchess.  In  life  she  was  an 
elderly  hag  with  a  distinguished  bearing,  a 
depraved  woman  of  rank,  who  wore  five  or  six 
dresses  at  once,  on  her  head  a  shapeless  yet 
attractive  gear,  and  in  her  pocket  she  carried 
a  fat  roll  of  bills  fer  purposes  of  dissipation,  or 
bribery,  or  for  bailing  out  some  Tenderloin 
112 


GEORGE  LUKS 

wreck.  She  is  maleficence  incarnate.  Just 
fancy  this  bird  of  the  night  set  forth  by  a  sym- 
pathetic brush,  endowed  with  a  life  that  over- 
flows the  canvas,  and  you  see  this  grande  dame 
strut  by,  the  embodiment  of  evil,  yet  a  duchess 
a  la  Sir  Johsua,  though  a  rebours.  It  is  a  sinister 
art  which  recalls  the  genius  of  Toulouse-Lautrec. 
With  Lautrec  the  work  of  Luks  has  certain 
affinities.  He  may  never  have  studied  that 
painter;  rather  is  it  a  temperamental  resem- 
blance, a  certain  tolerant  way  of  seeing  men 
and  things.  But  Luks  is  not  so  cynical  as  the 
Frenchman. 

And  that  striking  embodiment  of  Whisky  Bill, 
a  once  well-known  personage  in  the  American 
Parisian  colony!  Several  judges  have  praised 
the  Fraser  portrait,  which  we  greatly  admire 
for  its  excellent  qualities,  but  personally  we 
plump  for  the  head  of  Whisky  Bill,  the  head  of 
a  great  violinist  and  also  a  profound  alcoholist. 
In  Gorky's  Nachtasyl  there  is  an  old  actor 
who  runs  about  the  play  exclaiming:  "I  have 
poisoned  my  organism  with  alcohol."  We  have 
never  seen  Whisky  Bill,  but  we  are  sure  from 
the  canvas  that  he  has  poisoned  his  organism 
with  alcohol.  Nevertheless,  a  man  who  thinks, 
one  who  has  suffered  from  the  mirage  of  thirst, 
not  one  of  the  Hals  or  the  Steen  jovial  drinkers. 
The  spleen  of  life  has  killed  the  ideals  of  Bill. 
They  are  submerged  in  his  melancholy  eyes. 
As  for  his  hair,  we  might  almost  compare  it  to 
Masson's  engraving  of  the  gray-haired  man, 
"3 


BEDOUINS 

Guillaume  de  Brisacier,  after  Mignard;  but  with 
a  difference — the  hair  is  treated  more  luminously 
in  mass  than  detail. 

There  are  the  usual  number  of  studies  from 
life,  of  Old  Mary  Curling  Her  Hair,  a  companion 
piece  to  the  Goose  Girl.  The  most  characteris- 
tic picture  in  the  Luks  collection  is  an  ideal 
head  of  Bobbie  Burns's  Suter  Johnnie.  Therein 
is  the  synthesis  of  all  the  more  admirable  quali- 
ties of  Luks:  humor,  technical  audacity,  solid 
modelling,  vital  color,  sweet  sentiment,  and  a 
searching  humanity,  all  of  which  combined  make 
a  vigorous  appeal  to  the  spectator.  Luks 
sometimes  plays  to  the  gallery,  but  at  the  core 
he  is  sincere.  His  feet  are  set  upon  the  moun- 
tain. He  is  not  pausing  to  grasp  at  the  flowers 
or  the  applause.  But  do  not  imagine  because 
he  is  the  smiling  George  Luks  with  the  Napo- 
leonic brow,  round  cherubic  cheeks,  and  nimble 
wit,  that  he  is  easy  to  decipher. 

As  for  The  Pawnbroker's  Daughter — she 
might  have  stepped  out  from  some  old  Holland 
master's  studio.  The  Dutch  strain  in  Luks 
and  his  shrewd  Yankee  humor  are  here  blended 
in  the  happiest  manner.  The  girl  is  carrying  a 
carafe  on  a  tray.  The  rich  comminglement  of 
tones,  the  tribal  "  awareness"  of  the  girl's  glance, 
her  tangled  hair,  and  the  smouldering  splendor 
of  her  garb  are  indicated  without  a  suspicion  of 
bravura;  yet  one  is  conscious  of  virtuosity,  clair- 
voyance, and  sympathetic  observation. 

There  is  the  reverse  of  the  medal.  No  man 
114 


GEORGE  LUKS 

is  made  all  of  a  piece,  and  the  art  of  Luks  has 
its  seamy  side.  He  displays  an  infernal  impa- 
tience, that  chief  sin  of  heresiarchs,  according 
to  Cardinal  Newman.  He  sometimes  takes 
criticism  in  no  amiable  way.  And  the  corollary 
of  impatience  is  haste  in  execution.  Luks  sel- 
dom finishes  a  canvas.  He  must  have  five  hun- 
dred stowed  away  in  his  studio.  Many  are  not 
half-begun.  Nevertheless,  this  rough  handling 
of  his  material — neither  irreverent  nor  careless — 
bears  special  fruits.  Some  subjects  respond 
instantly  to  this  treatment.  Swift,  brutal,  sel- 
dom subtle,  though  suggestive,  his  portraits  leap 
from  the  bare  canvas  into  vital  being.  In  the 
fury  of  his  execution,  when  the  fit  is  upon  him 
he  could  cover  miles  of  walls  with  figures.  This 
itching  of  the  nerves,  this  tugging  of  the  mus- 
cles, which  impels  a  pianist  to  play  until  Jericho 
falls  or  his  listeners  die,  is  but  the  special  artistic 
organ  of  any  artist  keyed  up  to  the  pitch  of 
intensity.  Luks  is  the  most  normal  man  imag- 
inable. Full  of  the  kindly  sap  of  life,  he  too 
often  boasts  his  powers  when  he  should  be 
making  lines  and  color  patches.  That  is  his 
very  human  side;  " human — all  too  human" — 
as  Nietzsche  would  say.  Slightly  inhuman  is 
his  capacity  for  sustained  work — mind  you,  we 
don't  say  sustained  in  the  sense  of  sticking  at 
one  picture  until  he  has  exhausted  its  possibili- 
ties, but  a  capacity  for  toil,  prolonged,  laborious. 
This  exuberance,  this  boiling  over  of  energy, 
these  dashes  at  reality,  these  slices  of  life,  bold 


BEDOUINS 

portraits  of  men  and  women  who  dare  to  live, 
though  only  painted,  this  Human  Comedy 
merely  hinted  at,  are  testimonies  to  the  creative 
and  tumultuous  powers  of  a  man  who  is  of  Rab- 
elaisian energies.  The  saving  fact  is  that  Luks 
is  not  old,  and  knows  what  he  most  lacks.  To 
advise  him  to  paint  like  some  one  else,  to  make 
slim  silk  purses  when  he  so  superbly  paints 
sows'  ears,  would  be  futile.  He  is  not  academic. 
He  has  a  grim  vein  of  irony  that  spells  at  a 
glance  the  tragi-comedy  of  life — his  Parisian 
sketch-books  would  have  attracted  Daumier— 
and  also  a  superabounding  confidence  that  some- 
tunes  leads  its  owner  into  dubious,  as  well  as 
devious,  places. 

But  he  is  one  of  our  native,  commanding  tal- 
ents, and  with  study  and  experience  must  come 
the  purging  of  the  dross;  with  his  mellowing 
Luks  will  take  his  proper  place  among  his  con- 
temporaries, and  it  will  be  in  the  seats  of  the 
mighty — or  nowhere.  The  only  possible  school- 
ing that  will  hasten  this  result  will  be  the  stern 
self-schooling  of  George  Luks.  But  he  is  just 
the  style  of  man  who  may  bid  criticism  go  hang 
and  nevertheless  win  out  at  the  end.  Like  the 
turbulent  and  fleshly  Bard  of  Camden,  he  can 
"sound  his  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the 
world,"  and  make  of  this  "yawp"  an  art  ex- 
tremely personal  and  arresting. 

As  a  portraitist  he  has  his  good  days  and  bad. 
When  he  is  deeply  gripped  by  his  subject  he  is 
usually  successful.  The  head  of  Senator  Root 
116 


GEORGE  LUKS 

was  criticised  because  of  a  certain  hardness  and 
rigidity  in  texture  and  pose,  but  there  were 
critics  who  declared  that  the  painter's  psychol- 
ogy had  revealed  the  essential  Root — austere, 
profound,  Machiavellian  statesman  and  scholar. 
The  self-portrait,  like  the  Smoker  of  Brouwer, 
is  the  record  of  a  passing  mood.  It  is  a  swift 
sketch,  and  is  Luks  in  the  heydey  of  a  happy, 
devil-may-care  humor.  Truly  a  *  human  docu- 
ment/ I  admire  his  landscape,  Round  Houses 
at  High  Bridge.  The  atmosphere  is  finely 
evoked;  Luks  knows  his  values.  Steam,  and 
again  steam,  is  painted  in  a  delicate  scale  of 
pearl-greys. 

But  even  Lux  pinxit  becomes  a  long-drawn-out 
line  of  light.  I  bade  my  hosts  good  day.  "I'll 
see  you  as  far  as  the  subway,"  said  Luks.  He 
accompanied  me  to  the  station,  where  you  go 
down  to  the  train  in  a  lofty  elevator,  as  you  do 
in  the  gloomy  London  Underground.  I  had 
passed  an  admirable  afternoon  with  a  human 
painter.  Some  painters  are  not  human. 


1-17 


XII 
CONCERNING  CALICO  CATS 

THIS  is  to  be  a  sober  Sunday  sermon,  even 
though  it  largely  concerns  Calico  Cats.  What 
is  a  calico  cat?  you  will  ask.  The  first  we  ever 
heard  of  the  strange  beast,  after  the  Eugene 
Field  poem,  was  at  a  concert  of  the  Philharmonic 
Society,  when  Mortimer  Wilson  conducted  a 
clever  orchestral  suite  in  which  figured  the 
Funeral  of  the  Calico  Cat;  that  is,  a  specific  cat, 
one,  let  it  be  said  in  passing,  that  was  quite  tiny 
at  the  beginning  of  the  music,  but  grew  to  mon- 
strous proportions  before  its  interment;  a  cat 
that  would  have  put  to  blush  the  "Cheshire 
Puss"  of  Alice's  in  the  fable.  Cats  in  calico  may 
be  seen  on  the  streets  any  Gotham  summer  day, 
but  a  calico  cat — what  in  the  world  may  that 
be?  The  simulacrum  of  a  feline,  an  eidolon, 
such  as  Mr.  Howell  once  described?  We  can't 
ask  Mr.  Wilson,  because  he  might  refer  us 
to  his  charming  score,  which  speaks  for  itself. 
Verhaeren,  the  Belgian  poet,  the  greatest  living 
poet  at  the  time  of  his  death  at  Rouen,  with  the 
solitary  exception  of  Gabriele  d'Annunzio,  Emile 
Verhaeren  has  written  about  "Cats  of  ebony, 
Cats  of  flame,"  but,  manifestly,  a  cat  can't  be 
both  flaming  and  calico.  We  must  turn  to  that 
118 


CONCERNING  CALICO  CATS 

lover  of  cats,  Charles  Baudelaire,  who  wrote 
sonnets  to  his  cats  as  others  have  penned  praises 
of  their  mistresses'  eyebrows.  He  discovered  to 
France  the  genius  of  Richard  Wagner  and  the 
genius  of  Edouard  Manet,  not  to  mention  Poe's. 
Jules  Clare  tie  relates  that  Baudelaire  said  to 
him,  with  a  grimace:  "I  love  Wagner;  but  the 
music  I  prefer  is  that  of  a  cat  hung  by  his  tail 
outside  of  a  window,  and  trying  to  stick  to  the 
panes  of  glass  with  its  claws.  There  is  an  odd 
grating  on  the  glass  which  I  find  at  the  same 
time  strange,  irritating,  and  singularly  harmo- 
nious." 

Now,  obviously,  this  is  an  invention.  Per- 
verse as  Baudelaire  undoubtedly  was,  he  loved 
cats  too  much  to  torture  them.  Without  know- 
ing it,  the  late  director  of  the  Theatre  Frangais 
has  described,  "avant  la  lettre,"  as  the  etchers 
say,  the  music  of  the  future:  Schoenberg,  Stra- 
vinsky, Ornstein,  and  Prokofieff.  But  calico 
cats!  Not  a  spoor  of  them  in  all  this,  so  we 
are  forced  to  fall  back  upon  symbolism,  which 
seems  to  be  the  art  of  saying  the  reverse  of 
what  you  think.  (I  nearly  meant  this.)  In 
his  Hunting  of  the  Snark  Lewis  Carroll  finds 
that  it  is  a  Boojum.  Perhaps  our  calico  cat  is 
not  a  cat  at  all,  but  a  critic.  But  then  a  cat 
may  look  at  a  critic,  as  a  critic  is  privileged  to 
stare  a  composer  out  of  countenance.  A  calico 
cat  may,  for  all  we  know,  house  the  soul  of  a 
real  cat.  Therefore,  children,  do  not  treat  it 
rudely !  It  may  be  watching  you  with  its  ma- 
119 


BEDOUINS 

lignant,  beady  eyes,  ready  to  spring,  ready  to 
scratch  when  you  least  expect  it!  And  we 
should  not  forget  Baudelaire,  who  would  lower 
his  voice  when  showing  his  friends  some  Poly- 
nesian idol  of  wood,  bidding  them  not  mock, 
because  once  upon  a  time  a  deity  may  have  in- 
habited the  rude  carving.  The  remote  ancestor 
of  a  calico  doll  may  have  been  that  scourge  of 
a  vanished  geological  epoch,  the  sabre-toothed 
tiger,  just  as  the  iridescent  dragon-fly  that 
flashes  winged  sunshine  as  it  skims  is  the  pitiful 
reduction  of  the  dread  Pterodactyl,  the  flying 
saurian,  which  also  reappears  as  the  Jabberwock 
(furnished  with  a  monocle  by  Sir  John  Tenniel, 
ever  a  stickler  for  etiquette).  The  calico  cat 
might  be  a  prowling  version  of  the  Frumious 
Bandersnatch,  with  the  claws  that  scratch. 

But  a  truce  to  paleontology !  Let  us  of  the 
nonce  assume  that  the  cat  in  question  stands 
for  the  tutelar  totem  of  criticism.  A  mere  figure 
of  speech,  "Hypocrite  lecteur — mon  semblable — 
mon  frere ! "  I  can  see  my  surprised  colleagues: 
He  has  called  us  musical  lounge  lizards,  now  we 
are  calico  cats !  What  the  next  recrudescence  ? 
In  Hindu-land  what  Avatar?  I  remember  the 
sage  advice  of  Vance  Thompson:  When  all 
trumps  fail,  write  about  your  liver!  He  was 
speaking  of  criticism.  Musical  trumps  are,  as 
a  rule,  mesugah,  in  the  classic  parlance  of 
pinochle;  hence  I  fall  back  on  a  hypothetical 
hepatic  condition,  i.  e.,  calico  cats  and  criticism; 
criticism  of  music,  art,  literature,  or  mixed. 
120 


CONCERNING  CALICO  CATS 

Swinburne's  theory  that  "I  have  never  been 
able  to  see  what  should  attract  a  man  to  the 
profession  of  criticism  but  the  noble  art  of 
praising"  was  vitiated  in  practice  by  the  poet 
himself,  who  wrote  scurrilously  of  any  one  who 
disagreed  with  him.  "After  all,  what  are  crit- 
ics?" asked  Balzac,  and  later  Disraeli-Beacons- 
field.  "Men  who  have  failed  in  literature  and 
art."  Mascagni,  the  Single-Speech  Hamilton  of 
Italian  composers,  cried  aloud  in  resentment 
that  a  critic  was  only  a  "compositore  mancato." 
(Probably  some  fellow  musician  had  wounded 
him  with  a  pen.) 

But  every  one  is  a  critic,  a  calico  cat,  your 
gallery  god,  as  well  as  the  most  stately  practi- 
tioner of  the  gentlest  art.  The  difference  be- 
tween your  criticism  and  mine,  as  I  have  re- 
marked elsewhere,  is  that  I  am  paid  for  mine, 
and  you  must  pay  for  your  privilege  to  criticise. 
As  some  Paris  wit  said  of  a  certain  actress: 
"She  is  not  beautiful,  she  is  worse."  A  critic 
is  never  unjust — he  is  worse.  Nevertheless,  I 
prefer  the  plain  critic's  opinions  rather  than  the 
professional  pronouncement  of  a  composer.  He 
always  knows  more  than  the  critic,  yet  I  doubt 
his  attitude,  which  is  seldom  disinterested. 
How  could  it  be?  Why  should  it  be?  Schu- 
mann, who  "discovered"  Chopin  and  Brahms, 
missed  Wagner.  In  Wagner  he  met  his  critical 
Waterloo,  and  as  George  Moore  wrote  of  Ruskin 
vs.  Whistler:  "It  is  the  lot  of  critics  to  be  remem- 
bered by  what  they  have  failed  to  understand." 
121 


BEDOUINS 

Berlioz  also  missed  Wagner — Wagner  who  had 
helped  himself  so  generously  to  the  ideas  on 
instrumentation  of  the  Frenchman.  But  Balzac 
did  not  miss  Stendhal,  whose  generation  refused 
to  recognize  his  genius.  The  "creative"  critics 
are  few.  Montaigne,  Goethe,  Sainte-Beuve, 
Taine,  Baudelaire,  Georg  Brandes,  Nietzsche, 
Pater,  Benedetto  Croce,  Havelock  Ellis,  Mat- 
thew Arnold,  Arthur  Symons,  Anatole  France, 
De  Gourmont,  Edgar  Saltus,  Brownell — the  list 
might  be  spun  out,  but  these  names  suffice.  Yet 
my  idol  among  them,  Sainte-Beuve,  missed  Bal- 
zac, Stendhal,  Flaubert,  and  to  Victor  Hugo 
was  inconsiderate — possibly  on  account  of  his 
affair  with  Adele  Hugo.  Consider  the  Osrics  of 
literature  eternally  embalmed  in  the  amber  of 
Sainte-Beuve's  style,  a  fatal  immortality  for  so 
many  futile  butterflies,  and  you  will  admit  that 
he  still  lives  when  many  a  mighty  reputation 
has  withered. 

In  sheer  wonderment  George  III  asked  how 
the  apples  got  inside  the  dumpling.  How  can 
a  critic  criticise  a  creator !  Oscar  Wilde,  shrewd 
enough  when  he  so  willed,  has  a  middle  term; 
critics  who  are  "creative."  But  isn't  he  the 
man  who  looks  on  while  the  other  fellow  does 
things !  He  should  be  artist  as  to  temperament, 
and  he  should  have  a  credo.  And  like  most 
prima  donnas,  he  is  "catty."  He  need  not  be 
a  painter  to  write  of  painting,  a  composer  to 
speak  of  music.  His  primary  appeal  is  to  the 
public.  He  is  the  interpreter.  The  psycho- 
122 


CONCERNING  CALICO  CATS 

physiological  processes  need  not  concern  us. 
There  are  the  inevitable  limitations.  Describ- 
ing music  in  terms  of  prose  is  hopeless.  The 
only  true  criticism  of  music  is  the  playing 
thereof.  We  are  again  confronted  by  the  Vance 
Thompson  crux:  write  about  your  liver,  or  the 
weather,  or  calico  cats,  as  I  am  now  doing.  All 
the  rest  is  technical  camouflage.  Of  course,  a 
catholic  critic  doesn't  mean  an  unprejudiced 
one.  A  critic  without  prejudices  would  be  a 
faultless  monster,  and  like  Aristides  the  Just, 
should  be  stoned. 

Carl  Van  Vechten  has  told  us  of  Erich  Satie, 
the  eccentric  French  composer,  who  sets  snails 
and  oysters  to  music,  and,  no  doubt,  has  com- 
posed a  Cooties  Serenade  for  wind  instruments 
with  a  fine-tooth  comb  obbligato,  and  we  are 
amazed  at  the  critical  exposition  of  such  a  per- 
plexing "case."  To  let  his  music  speak  for  it- 
self, would  be  unwise,  as  it  is  not  sufficiently 
explicative.  Rhizopods  can't  converse.  Just 
here  is  where  your  music-critic,  your  calico  cat, 
intervenes.  After  Van  Vechten  has  polished  off 
his  man,  we  feel  that  we  know  all  about  Satie, 
so  much  so  that  we  never  wish  to  hear  a  bar  of 
his  crustacean  music.  The  difference  between 
tweedle-dum  and  tweedle-dee  is  infinitesimal, 
but  that  very  difference  may  contain  great  art. 

Professor,  now  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  has  said 

that  "Criticism,  after  all,  is  not  to  legislate  but 

to  raise  the  dead."     Sometimes  it  raises  hades. 

Millet  declared  that  "there  is  no  isolated  truth"; 

123 


BEDOUINS 

Constable  denied  that  a  good  thing  is  ever  done 
twice,  and  Alfred  Stevens — the  Belgian  painter, 
not  the  English  sculptor — defined  art  as  "na- 
ture seen  through  the  prism  of  an  emotion," 
thus  forestalling  the  more  pompous  pronounce- 
ment of  Zola  in  The  Experimental  Novel. 
These  are  not  merely  epigrams,  but  truths.  On 
the  other  hand,  recall  what  Velasquez  is  reported 
to  have  said  to  Salvator  Rosa,  according  to 
Boschini  and  Carl  Justi.  Salvator  had  asked 
the  incomparable  Spaniard  whether  he  did  not 
believe  Raphael  to  be  the  best  of  all  the  painters 
he  had  seen  in  Italy.  Velasquez  answered: 
"Raphael,  to  be  plain  with  you,  for  I  like  to  be 
candid  and  outspoken,  does  not  please  me  at 
all."  There  were  the  mountains  criticising,  deep 
calling  unto  deep.  All  said  and  done,  a  ques- 
tion of  temperament,  this  opinion  of  one  great 
man  about  the  work  of  another. 

Therefore,  brethren,  it  behooves  us  to  be 
humble,  as  pride  goeth  before  a  fall.  Like  the 
industrious  crow,  the  critic,  or,  as  you  will,  the 
calico  cat,  should  hop  after  the  sowers  of  beauty, 
content  to  pick  up  in  the  furrowed  field  the 
grains  dropped  by  genius.  At  best  the  critic 
sits  down  to  a  Barmecide's  feast,  to  see,  to  smell, 
but  not  to  taste  the  celestial  manna  vouchsafed 
by  the  gods.  We  are  only  contemporaries  of 
genius,  all  of  us,  and  the  calico  cat  is  the  badge 
of  our  tribe.  But  who  dares  confess  this  shock- 
ing truth?  And  who  shall  bell  the  calico  cat? 


124 


XIII 
CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS  ? 

RATHER  hotly  I  argued  the  question  with  my 
editor:  "After  all,  music-critics  are  men  and 
brethren,"  I  said.  "Except  when  they  are  sis- 
ters/' he  ironically  interposed.  I  sternly  re- 
sisted a  temptation  to  blush  and  continued: 
"Because  I  love  Chopin  must  I  forever  write  of 
his  music — tou jours  perdrix!  It's  an  indiges- 
tion of  strawberries,  clotted  cream,  and  green 
eyes.  I'm  suffering  from  spring-fever.  Let  me 
write  a  story  about  the  circus."  "Why  not 
Ibsen?"  interposed  my  editor,  who  is  subtle  or 
nothing.  "He  was  a  grand  man,"  I  assented, 
"but  in  the  present  case  he  is  only  red-herring 
across  the  trail.  Suppose  I  mix  up  Chopin  with 
sawdust  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  melange?" 
My  chief  assented,  wearily.  There  are  more 
important  problems  on  the  carpet  than  Chopin. 
Jim  Beck  vs.  Pop  Hylan  in  a  catch-as-catch-can 
for  the  welter-weight  championship.  Or  the 
celebrated  Mrs.  J.  and  the  Beethoven-Hambur- 
ger steak  controversy.  Why  not  Chopin  and 
sawdust?  I  retired  with  a  thoughtful  mien. 

Had  I  ever  been  to  the  circus?  What  a  sin- 
gular question.  Yet,  yet — !  No,  I  confessed 
to  myself,  I  had  not  been  to  the  circus  for  at 
125 


BEDOUINS 

least  three  decades.  Critics  are  tame  cats  away 
from  their  regular  guests.  In  the  concert-room 
or  at  the  play,  armed  with  our  little  hammers, 
we  are  as  brave  as  plumbers;  but  on  a  roof  gar- 
den, in  church,  at  a  circus,  or  innocently  slum- 
bering, we  are  the  mildest  gang  of  pirates  that 
ever  scuttled  an  American  sonata  or  forced 
ambitious  leading-ladies  to  walk  the  plank.  We 
may  go  alone  to  the  theatre  with  impunity  and 
another  fellow's  girl,  but  at  the  circus  we  need 
a  nurse  to  show  us  the  ropes  and  keep  us  from 
falling  under  the  elephants'  hoofs.  A  private 
nurse — not  necessarily  old — say  I,  is  the  only 
safety  for  a  critic  out  of  his  element;  otherwise 
a  sense  of  the  dignity  of  our  calling  is  not  main- 
tained. 

Therefore,  I  swallowed  my  Chopin  scheme 
without  undue  fervor  and  went  to  the  circus. 
No  matter  which  one.  All  circuses  are  in  an 
attractive  key  to  me.  Thackeray  said  the  same 
thing  about  the  play,  and  said  it  better.  Any 
circus  will  serve  as  a  peg  for  my  sawdust  sym- 
bolism. Any  Garden  will  do,  so  that  it  has  a 
capitalized  initial  letter.  (No  allusion  to  Magi- 
cal Mary.)  The  circus !  What  a  corrective  for 
the  astringent  Ibsen  or  the  morbidezza  of  Sar- 
matia's  sweet  singer,  Chopin!  The  circus.  It 
is  a  revelation.  One  thing  I  regretted — that  I 
could  not  be  a  boy  again,  with  dirty  hands,  a 
shining  brow,  and  a  heart  brimming  over  with 
joy.  Peter  Pan!  Oh!  to  recapture  that  first 
careless  rapture,  as  Browning  or  some  other 
126 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

writing  Johnny  said;  surely  he  must  have  meant 
the  circus,  which  is  the  one  spot  on  our  muddy 
planet  where  rapture  rhymes  with  the  sawdust 
ring. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  Hedda  Gabler?"  I  asked 
of  the  Finland  giantess.  We  were  wedged  in 
front  of  the  long  platform  at  the  Garden,  upon 
which  were  the  Missing  Link,  the  Snake-En- 
chantress, the  Lion-Faced  Boy,  the  English  Fat 
Girl— so  fat— the  Human  Skeleton,  the  Welsh 
Giant,  the  Lilliputians,  tattooed  men,  a  man 
with  an  iron  skull,  dancers,  jugglers,  gun-spin- 
ners, "lady"  musicians,  and  the  three-legged 
boy.  Eternal  types  at  the  circus.  The  noise 
was  terrific,  the  air  dense  with  the  aura  of  un- 
washed humanity.  This  aura  was  twin  to  the 
aura  in  a  monkey-house.  But  I  enjoyed  my 
"bath  of  multitude,"  as  Charles  Baudelaire 
names  it,  and  I  should  not  have  bothered  the 
tall  creature  with  such  an  inept  question.  She 
coldly  regarded  me: 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  Hedda  to-day,  but  I  re- 
member George  Tesman  always  teased  her  with 
one  question,  'What  do  you  know  about  that, 
Hed?'  Shoo!  Sardou  for  mine."  "Do  you 
read  George  Blarney  Shaw?"  I  persisted.  "He 
ought  to  be  in  a  cage  here.  He  would  draw 
some  crowds.  But  I'm  told  he  lives  in  Germany 
now  on  account  of  the  beer."  I  backed  away 
quickly  as  an  East  Side  family  consisting  of  a 
baker's  dozen  would  allow.  Why  had  I  asked 
such  a  question  of  a  perfect  stranger?  This 
127 


BEDOUINS 

giantess,  I  mused  before  the  rhinoceros  with 
the  double  prongs,  is  Finnish.  That's  why  she 
knew  the  name  of  Hedda  Gabler.  Why  didn't 
I  speak  of  Rosmersholm?  Rebecca  West  had 
Finnish  blood  in  her  veins.  Careful,  careful — 
this  Ibsen  obsession  must  be  surmounted,  else  I 
shall  be  inquiring  of  the  giraffe  if  neck  or  noth- 
ing is  the  symbol  of  Brand.  All  or  Nothing! 
of  course.  How  stupid  of  me.  Among  the  ani- 
mals I  regained  my  equilibrium.  Their  odors 
evoked  memories.  Yes,  I  recalled  the  old-time 
circus,  with  its  compact  pitched  canvas  tent  on 
North  Broad  Street,  Philadelphia;  the  pink  lem- 
onade, the  hoarse  voice  of  the  man  who  en- 
treated us  to  buy  tickets — there  were  no  mega- 
phones in  those  days — the  crisp  crackling  of  the 
roasting  peanuts,  the  ovens  revolved  by  the 
man  from  Ravenna,  the  man  from  Ascoli,  and 
the  man  from  Milan.  They  followed  the  circus 
all  the  way  from  Point  Breeze,  and  I  swear  they 
were  to  me  far  more  human  than  the  policemen 
who  gently  whacked  us  with  their  clubs  when 
we  crawled  under  the  tent. 

The  sense  of  smell  is  first  aid  to  memory.  As 
I  passed  the  cages  saluting  our  pre-Adamic 
relatives,  bidding  the  time  of  day  to  the  zebu, 
nodding  in  a  debonair  fashion  to  the  yak,  I 
could  not  help  longing  for  my  first  circus.  Again 
I  saw  myself  sitting  in  peaceful  agony  on  a 
splintery  plank;  again  I  felt  the  slaps  and 
pinches  of  my  tender-hearted  Aunt  Sue — now 
in  Paradise,  I  hope;  again  my  heart  tugged  like 
128 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

a  balloon  at  its  moorings  as  the  clowns  jumped 
into  the  ring,  grimacing,  chortling,  and  fascinat- 
ing us  with  their  ludicrous  inhumanity. 

Other  days,  other  ways.  I  sighed  as  I  tore 
myself  loose  from  the  prehensile  trunk  of  a  too 
friendly  baby  elephant  and  passed  into  the  huge 
auditorium  where  Gilmore  had  played.  Ah !  the 
sad,  bad,  glad,  dear,  dead,  tiresome,  poverty- 
stricken,  beautiful  days  when  we  were  young 
imbeciles  and  held  hands  with  a  fresh  "ideal" 
every  week  (sometimes  two).  Ah !  the  senti- 
mental "jag"  induced  by  peanut  eating,  and 
the  chaste,  odoriferous  apes. 

It  is  time.  We  seat  ourselves.  I  look  about 
me.  Two  resplendent  gentlemen  wearing  eve- 
ning clothes  at  high  noon,  after  the  daring  man- 
ner of  our  Gallic  cousins,  toll  a  bell.  I  became 
excited.  Why  those  three-and- thirty  strokes? 
What  the  symbolism !  Chopin,  or  Ibsen;  again, 
I  groaned,  and  turned  my  attention  to  my 
neighbors,  one  of  whom  I  could  feel,  though  did 
not  see.  I  raised  my  voice,  employing  certain 
vocables  hardly  fit  to  print.  The  effect  was 
magical.  "Johnny,  take  your  feet  out  of  the 
gentleman's  collar.  That's  a  good  boy."  It 
was  the  soothing  voice  of  a  mother.  Bless  her 
clairvoyance!  I  sat  comfortably  back  in  my 
seat.  Johnny  howled  at  the  interference  with 
his  pleasure.  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  Childhood 
is  ever  individualistic,  even  pragmatic.  But  I 
only  had  one  collar  with  me,  and  it  was  well  the 
matter  ended  thus. 

129 


BEDOUINS 

Hurrah !  Here  they  come !  A  goodly  band. 
The  clowns !  the  clowns !  Some  hieratic  owl  of 
wisdom  has  called  the  clown  the  epitome  of 
mankind.  He  certainly  stands  for  something, 
this  "full-fledged  fool,"  as  good  old  Tody  Hamil- 
ton used  to  write,  and  "surcharged  with  the 
Roe  of  Fun,"  which  phrase  beats  Delaware  shad. 
Odds  fish!  There  was  only  one  Hamilton. 
What  a  Rabelaisian  list  of  names  boast  these 
merry  clowns!  If  the  years  have  passed  over 
the  skulls  of  these  lively  rascals,  the  jolly  boys  do 
not  show  them.  The  same  squeaks,  the  identi- 
cal yodling,  the  funny  yet  sinister  expression  of 
the  eyes,  the  cruel,  red-slitted  mouths — not  a 
day  older  than  ten  did  I  seem  as  they  came  tum- 
bling in  and  began  their  horse-play,  punctuated 
with  yelling,  yahoo  gestures,  ribald  ejaculations, 
and  knock-about  diversions.  It  must  all  mean 
something,  this  hooting,  in  the  economy  of  the 
universe,  else  "life  is  a  suck  and  a  sell,"  as  Walt 
Whitman  puts  it.  As  in  a  dream-mirror  I  saw 
Solness  slowly  mount  the  fatal  tower  when 
Hilda  Wangel  cries  to  him:  "My — my  Master- 
builder!"  She  sings  The  Maiden's  Wish,  and 
he  hears  the  harps  of  Chopin  hum  in  the  air.  I 
rub  my  ears.  It  is  not  Hilda  who  is  crying,  but 
a  pet  pig  in  a  baby  carriage,  wheeled  by  a  chalk- 
faced  varlet.  How  difficult  it  is  to  escape  the 
hallucinations  of  the  critical  profession.  I 
couldn't  forget  Chopin  or  Ibsen,  even  at  the 
circus. 

It  was  a  relief,  after  more  bellmanship  from 
130 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

the  man  with  the  shiny  silk  hat  and  spiked 
coat,  when  the  elephants  majestically  entered. 
Followed  the  horses.  Tumblers  and  wire-walk- 
ers, women  who  stood  on  their  heads  and  smiled 
— as  they  do  in  life,  something  like  the  "  inverted 
pyramid,"  as  James  Hinton  called  modern  civ- 
ilization— plastic  poseurs,  Oriental  jugglers,  the 
show  was  let  loose  at  last.  Human  projectiles 
were  launched  through  mid  air  to  the  tap  of  a 
drum.  My  nerves  forbade  me  to  look  at  them, 
so  I  read  a  programme  advertisement  of  wall- 
paper for  bathrooms.  Some  people  like  such 
horrible  sights.  I  do  not.  They  dare  not  pre- 
cisely formulate  to  themselves  the  wish  that 
"something"  would  happen,  and  if  it  does 
they  shudder  with  sadistic  joy.  I  close  my  eyes 
when  the  Whirl  of  Death  or  any  other  sensa- 
tional act  is  staged.  " Something"  might  hap- 
pen. 

The  mad  dancers  delight  our  rhythmic  sense 
as  they  make  marvellous  arabesques.  The 
chariot  races  stir  the  blood.  The  crash  around 
curves,  the  patters  of  gleaming  metal  excite  so 
that  you  stand  up,  and,  brushing  the  feet  of 
inevitable  Johnny  from  your  neck  (notwith- 
standing his  remonstrances),  you  shout  with 
woolly  mouth  and  husky  voice.  Instinctively 
you  turn  down  your  thumbs:  "Pollice  verso," 
which  Bayard  Taylor  translated  "the  perverse 
police."  You  remember  the  Ger6me  painting? 

"This  beats  Ibsen,"  I  hilariously  exclaimed 
to  Johnny's  mother.  (She  was  a  comely  ma- 


BEDOUINS 

tron.)  "His  name  is  John,  and  when  he  gets 
home  his  father  will  beat  him,"  she  tartly  re- 
plied. With  the  prevoyance  of  boyhood  Johnny 
burst  into  despairing  howls.  I  at  once  folded 
up  my  mind.  A  million  things  were  happening 
in  the  haze  of  the  many  rings.  The  New  Circus 
is  polyphonic,  or  naught. 

Enough !  Filled  to  the  eyes  with  the  distract- 
ing spectacle,  ear-drums  fatigued  by  the  blare 
and  bang  of  the  monster  brass  band,  my  collar 
quite  wilted  by  Johnny's  shoemaker,  my  temper 
in  rags  because  of  the  panting,  struggling  army 
of  fellow  beings,  I  reached  the  avenue  in  safety, 
perspiring,  thirsty,  unhappy.  Like  Stendhal, 
after  his  first  and  eagerly  longed-for  battle  with 
love,  I  exclaimed:  "Is  that  all?"  In  sooth,  it 
had  been  too  much.  The  human  sensorium  is 
savagely  assaulted  at  the  twentieth  century  cir- 
cus. I  was  in  pessimistic  enough  humor  to 
regret  the  single  ring,  the  antique  japes  of  a 
solitary  clown,  and  the  bewitching  horseman- 
ship of  Mile.  Leonie,  with  her  gauze  skirts  and 
perpetual  rictus.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
wouldn't  endure  for  five  minutes  the  old-fash- 
ioned circus  and  its  tepid  lemonade.  Where  are 
the  mullygrubs  of  yesteryear?  But  the  human 
heart  is  perverse.  It  always  longs  for  the  penny 
and  the  cake  in  company,  while  ineluctable  des- 
tiny separates  them  ever.  Perhaps  my  editor 
was  right.  Render  unto  Chopin  the  things  that 
are  Chopin's;  send  Ibsen  back  to  his  Land  of  the 
Midnight  Whiskers.  Smell  the  sawdust  at  the 
132 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

Garden,  not  forgetting  that  the  chilly,  dry  days 
are  at  hand  when  even  Panem  et  Circenses  shall 
be  taboo;  when  pipe  and  prog  and  grog  will  be 
banned;  when  these  United  States  shall  have 
been  renamed  Puritania;  when  a  fanatically  sel- 
fish minority  shall  take  all  the  joy  from  life. 
Ergo,  carpe  diem !  I  thank  you. 


XIV 
CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

THAT  trip  was  all  the  fault  of  Billy  Guard, 
better  known  to  the  musical  world  as  Signor 
Guglielmo  Guardi — though  no  relative  of  the 
famous  painter  of  Venetian  waterscapes  by  the 
same  name;  it  is  even  rumored  that  Guardi 
originally  hails  from  the  "Ould  Dart/'  but  that 
knotty  question  will  be  solved,  no  doubt,  by 
future  historians.  He  is  none  the  less  no-per- 
cent American  in  the  shade.  However,  to  my 
story.  I  was  standing  in  the  concourse  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Station  when  Billy  interrupted 
my  meditation  on  the  evils  of  near-beer.  "Are 
you  going  with  us?"  he  hospitably  inquired. 
I  was  about  to  board  the  regular  three  o'clock 
train  to  Philadelphia  and  I  cheerfully  accepted 
his  invitation.  And  then  something  happened. 
Not  far  from  us  a  circle  of  spectators  enclosed 
as  a  focal  point  the  natty  person  of  Enrico 
Caruso  and  a  Red  Cross  girl.  Evidently  curi- 
osity had  ascended  to  the  blood-heat  mark  of 
the  human  thermometer.  With  difficulty  was 
the  mass  kept  from  swamping  the  border  of 
safety,  and,  literally,  embracing  the  well-be- 
loved Italian  tenor.  What  was  he  doing  in 
suet  a  place  at  the  uncanny  hour  of  2.30  p.  M.  ? 
134 


CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

Singers  operate  their  throats  all  night  and  sleep 
out  the  daylight.  It  was  not  difficult  to  guess 
that  he  was  going  to  Philadelphia  on  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  Special,  which  during  the 
season  leaves  every  Tuesday  afternoon  at  2.54, 
returning  some  time  after  2  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  The  present  intermezzo  piqued  my 
interest.  I  shouldered  my  diminutive  frame 
through  the  mob,  exclaiming,  "Tickets,  please !" 
and  because  of  this  official  camouflage  soon 
reached  the  centre  of  attraction.  Attired  hi 
garb  of  fashionable  hue  and  cut,  Signer  Caruso 
held  earnest  converse  with  a  pretty  Red  Cross 
nurse,  whose  face  beamed  with  joy.  Something 
had  been  given  which  pleased  her  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things,  and  later  I  heard  that  Caruso 
had  enrolled  the  names  of  his  two  sons  as  mem- 
bers of  the  Red  Cross  Association;  both  lads 
were  then  fighting  in  the  Italian  army;  Caruso 
is  patriotic. 

"Say,  ain't  dat  guy  Caroos?"  was  asked  of 
me  by  one  of  the  chaps  at  the  news-stand. 
"Doesn't  he  get  ten  thousand  dollars  a  night?" 
he  further  queried.  "More,"  I  replied.  "Well, 
he  don't  look  it,"  came  the  unexpected  com- 
ment. Young  America  thus  paid  tribute  to 
the  absence  of  fuss  and  feathers  in  the  person- 
ality of  the  singer.  It  is  true  Caruso  does  not 
look  like  the  typical  tenor  of  Italian  opera,  nor 
does  he  behave  like  one.  There  he  was,  happy 
as  a  boy  out  on  a  lark,  the  dingy  December  day 
not  depressing  him,  and  his  spirits  so  high  that 
135 


BEDOUINS 

we  expected  him  to  waltz  with  that  gentle 
nurse  on  the  finest  dancing  esplanade  in  the 
world.  Nor  did  the  young  lady  seem  averse 
from  the  diversion.  To  the  disappointment  of 
the  crowd — by  this  time  grown  to  monstrous 
size — Caruso  did  not  dance,  contenting  himself 
with  lustily  carolling  a  basketful  of  precious  high 
notes  as  he  descended  to  his  drawing-room  car. 
Manager  Gatti-Casazza  would  have  shuddered 
if  he  had  been  present.  His  supreme  vocal 
planet  prodigally  wasting  his  golden  wind  in  a 
hall  bigger  than  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
and  no  box-office  in  view !  Besides,  it  was  fly- 
ing in  the  face  of  nature.  Tenors  always  bundle 
up  to  the  eyebrows;  they  do  not  speak,  much 
less  vocalize,  and  usually  are  as  cross  as  the 
proverbial  bear.  Caruso,  who  has  defied  doctors 
and  vocal  hygiene  since  he  opened  his  magical 
mouth,  is  a  false  beacon  to  other  singers.  His 
care-free  behavior  should  be  shunned  by  lesser 
men  who  attempt  to  bend  the  bow  of  this  great 
singing  Ulysses. 

But  Caruso  is  careful  about  tobacco.  He  does 
not  enter  the  compartment  where  others  smoke. 
He  prefers  the  odor  of  his  own  choice  cigarettes. 
I  never  saw  him  without  one,  either  in  mouth 
or  fingers.  The  despair  he  is  of  any  throat 
specialist.  He  sits  in  company  with  his  old 
friend,  Signor  Scognomillo,  otherwise  the  Man- 
Mountain.  Sits  and  smokes.  He  is  to  sing 
and  so  he  doesn't  talk,  only  smokes,  or  makes 
caricatures.  Returning  is  another  tale.  In 
136 


CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

hilarious  mood,  he  orders  carte-blanche  supper 
for  the  chorus.  He  plays  pranks  on  his  fellow 
passengers.  Even  that  most  potent,  grave,  and 
bearded  Signor,  Manager  Gatti,  is  forced  to 
smile.  Caruso  is  irresistible.  He  recalls  the 
far-away  days  when  he  sang  two  operas  every 
Sunday  in  the  Teatro  Mercadante  at  Naples 
or  the  good  old  summer-time  at  Salerno,  when, 
during  entr'actes,  he  would  drop  a  string  from 
his  dressing-room  window  and  draw  up  the 
fond  prize — sardine  and  cream-cheese  sand- 
wiches. He  was  thin  in  those  youthful  days, 
and  thin  boys  always  have  hollow  legs  that 
must  be  filled.  Prosperity  has  not  spoiled 
Caruso.  He  is  human  and  tolerant,  with  a  big 
heart,  and  he  is  devoid  of  professional  mega- 
lomania. In  common  with  oldsters  I  have  railed 
betimes  at  altered  musical  tastes  and  often  de- 
clared that  in  the  days  of  my  youth  there  were 
better  singers.  I  still  abide  by  this  belief. 
There  were  vocal  giants  in  those  days;  but  there 
was  not  Enrico  Caruso. 

Since  my  dear  old  friend  Italo  Campanini 
there  has  been  no  one  to  match  Caruso.  Italo 
was  a  greater  actor,  indeed  more  versatile. 
His  Lohengrin,  the  first  I  ever  heard,  I  shall 
never  forget.  Mr.  Finck  is  happy  in  his  sug- 
gestion that  Caruso  add  Lohengrin  to  his  long 
Hst  of  operatic  portraits.  I  have  heard  tenors 
from  Brignoli  to  Gayarre,  from  Campanini  to 
Tamagno,  Masini  and  Nicolini — this  second 
husband  of  Aunt  Adelina  Patti  wasn't  such  a 


BEDOUINS 

mediocrity  as  represented  by  some  critics;  he 
suffered  only  from  contiguity  to  a  blazing  star 
of  the  first  magnitude — yet  no  one  possessed  a 
tithe  of  the  vocal  richness  of  Camerado  Enrico. 
Some  have  outpointed  him  in  finesse,  Bond; 
Tamagno  could  have  outroared  him;  Jean  de 
Reszke  had  more  personal  charm  and  artistic 
subtlety;  nevertheless,  Caruso  has  a  marvellous 
natural  voice,  paved  with  lyric  magic.  It  is 
positively  torrential  in  its  outpouring,  and  with 
the  years  it  grows  as  mellow  as  a  French  horn. 
Why,  there  are  men  in  this  vast  land  of  ours 
who  would  rather  be  Caruso  than  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  of  Europe.  Can  you 
blame  them?  In  his  golden  prime,  happily 
mated,  full  of  verve,  gayety — and  healthy — 
well,  his  presence,  apart  from  his  art,  consoles 
us  for  many  a  gray  day  on  this  ocky  little  orb 
we  inhabit. 

The  recognition  of  personality  has  become  in 
my  "middle-years"  a  veritable  obsession.  With 
Henry  James  I  could  say  that  "I  have  found 
myself,  my  life  long,  attaching  values  to  every 
noted  thing  in  respect  to  a  great  person." 
Please  strike  out  "great"  from  this  sentence 
and  substitute  "any";  any  person  is  interest- 
ing to  me.  Himself  exquisitely  aware  of  the 
presence  of  others,  Henry  James  placed  his 
fastidious  preference  amid  certain  castes,  social 
and  artistic.  Like  Walt  Whitman,  I  prefer  the 
company  of  "powerful  uneducated  persons,"  and 
nothing  inhuman  or  human  is  foreign  to  me.  I 

138 


CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

shouldn't  be  surprised  to  find  more  interesting 
"stories"  among  the  members  of  the  chorus 
than  in  the  ranks  of  the  "stars";  but  the  "stars" 
alone  capture  the  curiosity  of  the  public,  and 
thus  it  is  that  I  speak  of  some  of  them  to-day 
instead  of  la  bella  ragazzina  in  Mr.  Setti's 
forces.  I  was  bundled  on  Manager  Gatti's 
special  car  and  promptly  paid  my  fare  to  a 
conductor  who  suspiciously  appraised  my  pres- 
ence; to  him  I  was  neither  fish  nor  flesh,  nor 
good  red  chorus.  I  should  have  liked  very 
much  to  walk  through  the  chorus  car,  but  with 
Otto  Weil  on  one  side  and  Edward  Ziegler  on 
the  other  I  couldn't  escape;  furthermore,  young 
Ziegler  thus  admonished  me:  "Sir,  it's  no  place 
for  an  elderly  inflammable  person,  is  that  car 
full  of  pretty  young  song-birds;  Pattis  and 
Scalchis  en  herbe."  I  meekly  submitted  and 
found  myself  in  a  smoking-compartment  where 
a  card-table  was  promptly  installed. 

A  friendly  game  of  old  cat  bridge-whist. 
Now,  I  play  Bach  inventions  every  morning, 
but  I  can't  play  cards.  I  despise  card  games, 
agreeing  with  my  friend  J.  K.  Huysmans,  who 
asserted  that  a  monument  should  be  erected  to 
the  memory  of  the  inventor  of  cards  because 
"he  did  something  toward  suppressing  the  free 
exchange  of  human  imbecility."  If  the  dis- 
tinguished French  pessimist  and  master  of 
jewelled  prose  could  have  been  with  us  that  day 
he  might  have  revised  his  polite  judgment. 
Such  gabbling.  Such  "kachesse,"  such  feminine 
139 


BEDOUINS 

squabbles.  No  hotel  piazza  on  the  Jersey  coast 
of  an  August  afternoon  could  have  held  a  can- 
dle to  the  shrewd  repartee  and  vivacious  wran- 
gling over  a  few  painted  pasteboards.  Antonio 
Scotti,  drumming  on  the  table  the  rhythm  of 
the  Rataplan,  would  suddenly  scowl,  and,  with 
Scarpia-Uke  intensity,  demand:  "Why  you  play 
that  ace?"  And  Technical  Director  Siedle 
would  groan  in  reply.  A  flash  of  lightning 
from  a  blue  sky.  Then  Otto  Weil  banged  down 
his  cards  and  audibly  expressed  his  opinion  of 
his  partner's  playing.  It  is  not  fit  to  print. 
Judels  never  turned  a  hair,  and  he  isn't  bald. 
Even  Scotti  relaxed  for  a  moment  his  ferocious 
Neapolitan  air.  No  one  can  "stay  mad"  long 
with  Judels.  Pan  Ordynski  drops  in,  and 
Am'ato,  Chalmers,  or  Althouse.  Scotti  is  smoke- 
proof.  It  is  pleasant  to  record  that  this  big 
operatic  organization  with  its  divers  national- 
ities is  en  route  a  happy  family.  Music,  after 
all,  is  the  solvent,  the  real  melting-pot  of  which 
we  hear  so  much  and  see  so  little  in  every-day 
fife, 

Caruso  is  not  the  only  f  unmaker  on  the  wheels 
of  this  Opera  Special.  Rosina  Galli  of  the 
dainty,  tapering  toes  and  woven  paces  is  al- 
ways rollicksome.  Her  imitations  would  make 
her  fortune  in  vaudeville.  Signor  Gatti  philo- 
sophically reposes  after  the  fatigue  of  travel  and 
Union  League  Club  terrapin.  Scotti  munches 
chicken,  resting  after  his  Sergeant  Sulpizio 
140 


From  a  photograph  by  De  Strelecki 

ROSINA  GALLI  AS  THE  PRINCESS  IN  "LE  COQ  D'OR" 


CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

r61e,  and  still  strums  the  Rataplan.  Caruso 
smokes.  Friend  Scognomillo  sleeps  with  one 
eye  open.  Florence  Easton,  wrung  from  her 
triumph  as  Santuzza,  is  there.  In  a  compart- 
ment sits  Geraldine  Farrar.  She  sips  coffee. 
Her  mother  is  with  her.  So  are  chicken  sand- 
wiches. "Our  Jerry"  is  bright-eyed  and  keyed 
up  as  might  be  expected.  I  mention  the  name 
"Sid"  Farrar,  my  boyhood's  idol.  The  ladies 
become  sympathetic.  When  I  stoutly  declared 
that  I  had  never  fallen  in  love  with  a  prima 
donna  during  four  decades  as  a  music  reporter, 
my  "specialty"  being  admiration  of  the  mothers 
of  singers,  the  air  is  charged  with  interrogation- 
marks.  Why  hasn't  some  authoritative  pen 
been  employed  in  behalf  of  the  mother  of  the 
singer  who  has  succeeded  ?  What  a  theme ! 
What  peeps  into  a  family  inferno!  I  think 
that  Mrs.  Farrar  could  write  a  better  book 
about  her  brilliant  daughter  than  did  Mrs.  Lou 
TeUegen  of  herself. 

Another  time  I  talk  with  Frieda  Hempel, 
who  is  one  of  the  rapidly  dwindling  race  of 
artists  who  know  Mozart  as  well  as  Donizetti. 
What  a  Marguerite  she  would  be !  On  the  train 
she  is  like  her  contemporaries.  She  sits.  She 
chats.  For  all  I  know,  she  may  doze.  Singers 
are  very  human.  To  fancy  them  as  "gloomy, 
grand,  and  peculiar"  is  to  imagine  a  vain 
thing.  In  private  they  behave  like  their  butch- 
ers, bakers,  candlestick  makers.  If  they  have 
141 


BEDOUINS 

one  weakness  peculiar  to  their  tribe,  it  is  never 
to  read  newspaper  criticism  of  their  perform- 
ances! This  is  discouraging  for  music-critics. 
But  the  public  likes  sentimental  flimflam,  and 
the  opera  singer  is  pictured  as  a  strange  and 
fearful  bird  of  prey;  when  seen  at  close  range 
she  is  in  reality  a  domesticated  fowl.  The  much- 
advertised  artistic  temperament  is  only  inter- 
mittent; even  arrant  bohemians  are  normal  at 
least  twice  every  twenty-four  hours. 

The  call  is  sounded.  Again  New  York!  A 
jumble  of  voices  is  heard  in  the  smoking-com- 
partment.  "  If  you  hadn't  played  that  trump ! " 
—it  is  Judels  speaking.  "Oh!"  groans  Papa 
Siedle.  Scotti  is  now  whistling  the  Rataplan. 
The  blond  Ordynski,  having  wished  the  Polish 
curse  on  Otto  Weil — "may  you  have  hangnails 
and  dandruff!" — dons  his  greatcoat.  "Addio, 
Hunekero ! "  sings  Caruso.  After  refusing  Ned 
Ziegler's  kind  offer  of  "First  Aid  to  Flatbushers," 
which  means  his  private  car,  I  find  myself 
alone  on  the  chilly  concourse.  The  hour  of  dis- 
illusionment, three  past  midnight.  I've  been  on 
and  off  wheels  with  Caruso  for  twelve  times 
sixty  minutes.  I  ponder  Flatbush  and  the  possi- 
bilities of  getting  there  by  dawn.  The  scrub- 
women are  at  work,  a  new  postwoman  saunters 
along.  The  luncheon-room  cat  rubs  against 
me,  almost  coos  with  joy.  I  slink  away,  being 
superstitious  regarding  cherry-colored  cats,  step- 
ladders,  and  cross-eyed  theatre  managers.  (I 
142 


CARUSO  ON  WHEELS 

am  writting  plays.)  Then,  resigned  to  the  in- 
evitable, I  seek  my  trusty  Glenn  Curtiss  hydro- 
aeroplane, which  is  anchored  in  the  Thirty-third 
Street  enclosure,  and  fly  home  to  Flatbush-by- 
the-Sea.  I've  had  a  crowded  and  enjoyable  day. 


143 


XV 
SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 

SING  and  grow  voiceless!  Why  not?  We 
know  of  a  dozen  methods  that  are  guaranteed 
to  ruin  even  a  Rose  Ponselle  vocal  equipment 
in  thirty  lessons  by  mail,  better  known  as  ab- 
sent treatment.  We  have  had  over  forty  years' 
experience  in  the  fair  land  of  song,  a  scarred 
battle-field  strewn  with  the  shards  and  wrecks  of 
beautiful  voices  and  high  hopes.  In  no  sphere 
of  music  are  there  so  many  sharks,  cormorants, 
swindlers,  humbugs,  criminals,  as  in  the  ranks 
of  vocal  teaching — so-called.  The  hard-earned, 
carefully  saved  money  of  parents  is  extorted 
from  victims,  who  usually  return  home  with 
health  impaired,  voices  gone,  even  worse.  It 
is  pitiful.  It  is  cruel.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?  The  profession  of  medicine  is 
protected.  Why  not  music?  Malpractice  is 
swiftly  punished.  Why  not  lock  up  the  ras- 
cals who  ruin  a  voice  and  get  money  under  false 
pretenses?  No,  chewing  gum  in  public  is  of 
far  more  importance  to  people;  now  a  national 
neurosis,  it  will  soon  be  elevated  to  the  dignity 
of  a  Fine  Art.  If  we  had  our  way  we  should 
drive  every  one  of  these  vocal  parasites  who  in- 
144 


SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 

fest  the  temple  of  music  into  the  swamp  of 
public  odium. 

Now,  having  worked  off  my  chronic  bad 
humor,  let  us  look  at  the  matter  through  the 
spectacles  of  the  absurd.  There  is  a  comic  side 
to  everything,  from  a  volcano  to  a  prohibition- 
ist. The  fake  singing-teachers  are  as  funny  as 
their  fakery  is  pernicious. 

I  am  reminded  of  all  the  pamphlets  from  How 
to  be  Happy  Though  Divorced,  How  to  Starve 
and  Grow  Fat  when  I  read  the  pompous  pro- 
nouncements of  certain  Voice  Builders.  I  con- 
fess that  I  am  not  an  expert  in  vocal  hygiene, 
but  I  have  heard  all  the  great  men  and  women 
for  the  past  half-century  who  have  made  this 
drab,  dreary  planet  worth  living  on  with  their 
beautiful  voices.  And  that  is  a  brevet  of  taste. 
Standards.  Without  standards  we  critically 
perish,  says,  in  effect,  Mr.  Brownell.  I  also 
confess  that  I  don't  know  a  resonator  from  a 
refrigerator,  or  the  difference  between  a  lynx 
and  a  larynx.  Both  growl,  I  believe,  if  you  rub 
them  the  wrong  way.  I  have  not  the  science  of 
W.  J.  Henderson  or  Holbrook  Curtis.  But  I  do 
know  when  a  singer  slathers  her  phrases  or  sings 
above  or  below  pitch — and  there  are  more  who 
sing  sharp  than  you  think.  The  main  thing  is 
that  I  criticise  by  ear,  not  with  a  laryngoscope 
or  a  mirror  to  peep  at  the  breath-control. 

Herbert  Witherspoon,  not  unknown  to  fame 
as  an  operatic  artist  and  concert  singer,  summed 
up  for  me  the  situation  in  a  phrase.  "Opera 
145 


BEDOUINS 

singers  open  their  mouths  too  wide."  Hence 
screaming  and  bawling  which  nearly  splits 
sensitive  ears.  That  the  public  likes  shouting 
on  top-tones  is  only  evidence  of  the  public's 
appalling  taste.  Noise,  noise,  noise !  We  wor- 
ship noise  in  America.  Another  neurosis. 
Noise  the  Ultimate  Vulgarity.  At  last  the  sub- 
way voice  has  penetrated  our  opera-houses; 
charmless,  voiceless,  vicious.  The  three  dra- 
matic unities  in  the  modern  theatre  have  re- 
solved themselves  into  Legs,  Glitter,  Buncombe. 
On  the  lyric  stage  the  chief  unit  is  yelling.  No 
wonder  they  sing  and  grow  voiceless.  Purdon 
Robinson,  himself  a  concert  singer  of  note,  in 
the  course  of  an  instructive  lecture  recently  re- 
marked: "My  own  opinion,  backed  by  thirty 
years  of  singing  and  teaching,  has  resulted  in 
the  belief  that  a  mechanical  method  makes  a 
mechanical  singer";  and  "after  the  voice  has 
been  placed  and  one  has  it  under  control,  forget 
it  when  singing.  Try  to  get  at  the  composer's 
meaning,  realizing  that  words  in  themselves 
mean  little,  and  that  notes  in  music  are  simply 
the  symbols  by  which  musical  ideas  are  indi- 
cated." For  the  average  vocalist  words  are  not 
symbols  but  cymbals.  But  Mr.  Robinson's 
words  are  golden. 

Years  ago  (do  sit  still  a  moment,  this  is  not  a 
spun-out  story  of  my  life !)  a  young  woman  con- 
sulted me  about  a  vocal  master.  She  was  a  choir 
singer  from  the  remote  South,  her  parents  poor 
as  brewery  mice— are  to  be— and  she  thought 
146 


SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 

she  had  a  remarkable  voice.  I  say  "thought." 
Care  killed  a  cat.  Thought  never  slew  a  larynx. 
I  played  a  hymn  tune.  She  sang.  I  shuddered, 
but  was  relieved  when  she  told  me  that  her 
name  was  Elvina  Crow.  After  all,  there  is 
something  to  be  said  for  Prof.  Slawkenbergius 
and  his  theory  of  names  as  set  forth  by  the 
veracious  Rev.  Laurence  Sterne.  I  suggested 
that  if  she  decided  on  a  career  she  change  her 
name  to  "Sgallinacciare,"  which  appropriately 
enough  means  to  crow;  also  a  faulty  method  of 
singing.  "  Signorina  Sgallinacciare ! "  How  that 
would  ring  in  the  credulous  ears  of  the  dear  old 
deluded  public,  which,  Hamlet-like,  doesn't  know 
a  hawk  from  a  hand-saw,  or,  if  you  prefer,  a 
hernshaw.  Shriek  and  grow  rich !  Nothing  else 
matters  but  "mazuma"  in  the  box-office  of  the 
Seven  Deadly  Arts. 

It  must  have  been  a  month  after  our  interview 
that  Miss  Crow  again  visited  me.  I  was  at  the 
time  assistant  professor  of  applied  paleontology, 
and  mightily  interested  in  the  psychic  life  of 
micro-organisms,  so  naturally  singers  came  first 
on  the  list.  Into  my  large  and  sympathetic 
tympani  Elvina  poured  a  tale,  not  of  woe,  but 
of  thrilling  truth.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  related  it,  yet  it  improves  on  repetition, 
just  because  of  its  probability.  Not  discouraged 
by  my  slurring,  even  portamento,  criticism  of 
her  voice,  the  lone  girl  bravely  started  to  find 
out  the  truth  herself;  the  real  test  of  charac- 
ter. She  said  that  her  first  experience  was  in 
147 


BEDOUINS 

the  studio  of  a  maestro.  She  had  a  letter  to  him 
which  he  barely  read.  In  a  rich  Italian  brogue 
he  bade  her  be  seated.  He  wore  a  velvet 
jacket.  He  was  bald.  He  smoked  cigarettes. 
The  type  was  perfect. 

"  I  giva  da  lesson  in  fiva  minuta,"  he  explained, 
and  then  scowled  at  a  tall  girl  who  faced  a  mir- 
ror in  a  guilty  manner  as  her  eyes  computed  the 
possible  value  of  the  newcomer's  gown.  "  Must 
I  sit  here  like  a  fool?"  the  professor  angrily  de- 
manded. His  pupil  opened  her  mouth.  Elvina 
eagerly  listened.  But  no  sound  escaped  the 
lips  of  the  other  girl.  She  gazed  into  the  mirror 
and  mouthed  and  grimaced,  and  almost,  though 
not  quite,  formed  words.  "Faster,"  cried  the 
teacher  at  the  keyboard.  The  student's  lips 
moved  like  a  praying  mill;  she  clicked  her  teeth 
Castanet  fashion;  and  at  last  with  a  wild  bang 
on  the  keyboard  the  voiceless  aria  ended.  The 
maestro  knitted  his  dyed  eyebrows.  "  Vara  fair, 
not  presto  assai.  You  sing  without  expression. 
You  are  too  cold  — what  shall  I  call  it?"  A 
husky  voice  asked:  "Shall  I  try  it  over  again?" 
"Dio  mio !  girl,  how  dare  you  speak  after  singing 
such  a  difficult  aria  from  Rossini's  Cinderella? 
Your  vocal  pores  are  open,  you  perspire  with 
your  lungs  —  pouf !  You  die  of  the  inflamma- 
tus  by,  by"  —  he  impatiently  pulled  at  his  large 
nose.  "The  Inflammatus  by  Rossini,  you 
mean!"  interposed  Elvina.  "How?  No,  no, 
ah !  by  pneumonia,  that's  it."  And  he  bustled 
from  the  instrument.  Throwing  an  old  bearskin 
148 


SING  AND   GROW  VOICELESS 

rug  over  his  speechless  singer,  he  led  her  to  a 
chair,  admonishing  her :  ' '  Now  perspire ! ' '  She 
coughed  in  a  terrifying  way  while  the  maestro 
imperturbably  explained  his  method  to  Elvina. 
He  did  not  permit  his  pupils  to  open  their  mouths 
for  a  year,  during  which  time  he  put  them 
through  a  severe  throat  and  lung  drill.  All  songs 
were  given  in  vocal  miming,  with  due  facial  ex- 
pression, and  the  ventriloquist  was  adduced  as 
the  highest  type  of  masterly  vocal  control,  for  a 
ventriloquist  can  sing  in  his  stomach  without 
moving  a  muscle  of  his  face.  Think  of  Fred 
Stone  and  his  Very  Good  Eddie.  The  Signer 
became  eloquent.  Had  the  young  Miss  Elvina 
—  Corpo  di  Baccho !  what  a  pretty  name !  —  had 
she  a  little  money  for  tuition?  One  thousand 
dollars.  Dirt  cheap.  A  second  Patti  she  would 
become  for  the  money.  Sign  a  contract  with 
him  for  ten  years.  Then  the  movies  for  a  year 
so  that  her  stage  nervousness  would  wear  off, 
then  vaudeville,  et  puis  done  —  grand  opera. 
A  ravishing  prospect.  He  rolled  his  eyes  ecstati- 
cally as  he  took  Elvina's  ten-dollar  bill.  She 
escaped.  To  her  taste  the  method  seemed  a 
trifle  too  swift. 

In  another  part  of  the  town  she  found  the 
atelier  of  Mme.  Boche.  She  was  about  to  enter 
the  anteroom  unannounced  when  she  heard  low 
moaning  sounds,  which  presently  increased  in 
volume  and  intensity,  then  suddenly  died  away 
in  a  sickening  style.  It  seemed  as  if  some  ani- 
mal were  undergoing  vivisection,  and  Elvina,  her 
149 


BEDOUINS 

sympathies  aroused,  pushed  open  the  door  with- 
out knocking.  It  was  a  strange  sight  that  met 
her  indignant  gaze,  a  sight  that  set  her  wonder- 
ing, and  soon  smiling.  On  a  huge  mattress, 
which  occupied  half  the  room,  were  a  dozen 
girls  in  seaside  bathing  costume.  They  lay  on 
their  backs,  and  upon  their  diaphragms  rested 
twenty-pound  weights,  and  from  their  closed 
lips  issued  the  moans  made  by  their  respiration. 
The  Madame,  a  high-nosed  old  dame,  stood  by, 
rattan  cane  in  hand,  and  in  militarist  accents 
gave  her  commands:  "One,  two,  three — inhale! 
Hold  breath!  Shoulders— up !  Relax!  Down!" 
And  the  class  went  patiently  through  this  ven- 
tral drill  until  completely  fagged.  After  the 
order  to  arise  a  babel  of  chatter  ensued  as  Elvina 
told  the  Madame  of  her  aspirations  and  the 
amount  of  cash  she  possessed. 

"Na !  I  have  the  only  system  for  the  breath- 
ing. My  pupils  know  how  to  breathe,  how  to 
breathe,  and,  again — how  to  breathe.  There  is 
one  necessary  thing  in  singing,  the  breath.  If 
my  pupils  can't  stand  my  system  I  send  them 
forth." 

Elvina  positively  feared  this  martinet.  Her 
pupils'  figures  were  lanky.  She  mildly  inquired 
when  they  sang.  "  What,  sing  ?  Niemals,  never, 
jammai,  jamais  de  la  leben !  You  heard  them 
breathing?  Did  they  breathe  or  no?"  Then 
turning  to  her  class  she  resumed:  "Young  ladies, 
attention!  Fall  down!  Relax!"  Elvina  slipped 
150 


SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 

away,  muttering  as  she  went:  "Calisthenics,  not 
art."    It  had  cost  her  another  ten  dollars. 

After  a  hurried  Automat  luncheon  she  pro- 
ceeded to  a  cross  town  street,  the  address  of 
which  she  had  read  in  the  newspapers.  The 
window  displayed  this  sign,  "  Professor  Erasmus 
Brick,  Voice  Builder."  He  was  a  burly  gentle- 
man, the  Prof.  His  linen  was  not  irreproach- 
able, his  forehead  looked  like  a  mansard  roof, 
and  his  eyes  were  shrewd.  She  named  her 
errand,  confided  her  doubts,  hinted  at  the  pov- 
erty of  her  purse.  He  laughed,  and  his  voice 
restored  her  courage,  if  not  her  confidence. 
"My  dear  Miss,  cast  your  eye  round  this  room 
and  see  if  I  have  a  piano,  a  looking-glass,  a  pul- 
someter,  or  any  other  foreign  fiddle-faddle  of 
those  Signers  or  Fraus.  I  build  the  voice  up 
into  the  perfect  thing  the  good  Lord  intended 
it  to  be,  and  without  any  extry  fixin's  or  bricks 
and  mortar.  The  job  is  simple  if  you  know  how. 
All  this  gabble  about  vocal  registers  and  nasal 
emission  makes  me  tired.  I  build  up  a  voice 
on  the  word  'Moo';  jest  keep  'em  right  at  that 
word  till  the  old  cow — so  to  speak  —  dies  of  the 
tune.  While  you  sing  I  work  this  pocket-fan. 
I  use  it  to  fan  away  the  breath  as  you  sing 
'Moo.'  By  this  means  the  lungs  are  unob- 
structed and  the  voice  grows  of  its  free  accord. 
My  theory  is  that  the  breath  kills  the  voice  — 
Moo!"  Elvina  passed  out,  and  in  the  hall  a 
phonograph  hoarsely  sang:  "Do,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol. 


BEDOUINS 

Five  dollars.  Please  put  the  cash  on  the  man- 
telpiece." "That's  a  dollar  a  note,"  she  calcu- 
lated. She  paid,  and  her  bank-roll  became  omi- 
nously slender. 

She  found  Mile.  Pinson  in  her  apartment, 
small,  stuffy,  crowded  with  rickety  furniture, 
books,  china,  music,  even  a  parrot.  The  lady 
was  drinking  chocolate.  "Via,  Mamselle !  I've 
purchased  a  frugal  meal,  is  it  not?  I  diet  my- 
self as  carefully  as  in  the  days  when  I  was  lead- 
ing soprano  at  the  Grand  Opera.  Helas !  those 
miserable  days  when  I  was  so  happy.  Oh,  Paris ! 
Now  sing '  la/  Mamselle.  No,  no,  louder,  please. 
C'est  bon.  You  must  know  that  when  you  sing 
correctly  the  vibrations  travel  to  the  knee-caps. 
I  test  them  and  know  exactly  if  the  tone  is 
formed  naturally  or  not.  My  vibratory  system 
is  the  only  true  one.  Yes,  twenty  dollars  will 
be  enough  for  this  time.  You  have  a  sweet 
voice,  my  dear,  and  I'll  make  a  great  singer  of 
you  in  five  years."  Elvina  faintly  asked : ' '  When 
do  I  begin  on  songs  ?  "  "  What !  Songs  ?  Ah ! 
those  Americans,  they  are  always  in  a  hurry, 
what  you  call  get  rich  in  a  week!  My  child, 
you  can't  hurry  art.  Bonsoir,  Mamselle !  To- 
morrow at  nine,  precisely,  and  I'll  test  your 
knee-caps.  Take  one  of  my  pamphlets.  Vibra- 
tion, vibration,  vibration !"  The  parrot  opened 
its  beak:  " Vibration,  vibration,  vibration.  I'm 
in  for  life,  ch6rie.  Take  me  out  of  jail,  che"rie." 
Elvina  sat  in  a  Madison  Avenue  tram  and  read 
the  booklet  of  Mile.  Mimi  Pinson,  entitled  Hy- 
152 


SING  AND  GROW  VOICELESS 

giene  for  Voiceless  Singers.  Numerous  rules 
and  "Don'ts,"  ending  with,  "Don't  marry. 
Husbands  of  opera-singers  always  collect  their 
wives'  salaries.  Vibrate  when  you  breathe. 
You  may  achieve  fame  and  happiness.  Think 
blue!  It  is  the  color  of  hope.  Vogue  la  galere !" 
"This  is  becoming  monotonous,"  said  Elvina 
aloud,  and  gritting  her  teeth  she  packed  her  duds 
and  returned  to  her  home  town  with  only  one 
dollar  and  twenty-five  cents  in  her  pocket. 
However,  family  affection,  above  all  family  flap- 
jacks, restored  her  jarred  nerves  to  their  normal 
pitch.  From  time  to  time  she  sends  me  pro- 
grammes of  concerts  in  which  she  is  described: 
"Our  native  song-bird,  Elvina,  Prima  Donna 
Dissoluta."  As  Esther  Beautiful  Queen  (newly 
reorchestrated  by  Stravinsky)  she  made  a  "real 
hit."  She  may  have  exaggerated  a  little  hi  her 
confidences,  but  I  can  personally  vouch  for  the 
heavy  weights  on  pupils'  chests  to  promote 
breathlessness.  There  was  advocated  such  a 
vocal  system  two  or  three  decades  ago  in  New 
York.  Sing  and  grow  voiceless !  Basta ! 


153 


XVI 

ANATOLE  FRANCE:  THE  LAST 
PHASE 

ANATOLE  FRANCE  is  seventy-six  years  old,  but 
his  mind  is  still  vigorous,  if  that  word  be  not 
too  brisk  when  applied  to  such  a  subtle,  supple, 
undulating  intelligence  as  his.  He  now  writes 
prose  glowing  with  patriotism.  Like  the  late 
Remy  de  Gourmont  he  shed  his  cynic's  skin 
when  war  invaded  his  beloved  land.  And  it 
was  not  the  first  time  that  he,  a  writer  of  human- 
itarian impulses,  opened  the  door  of  his  ivory 
tower  and  descended  into  the  stormy  arena; 
witness  the  Dreyfus  case.  However,  it  would 
be  idle  to  deny  that  his  best  work  is  well  behind 
him.  Prefaces  to  letters  to  distinguished  men 
and  women  he  occasionally  publishes,  such  as 
Sur  la  Voie  Glorieuse,  or  Ce  que  disent  nos 
morts;  but  the  Anatole  France  of  La  Revoke 
des  Anges  seems  to  have  vanished  forever.  In 
the  vast  whirlwind  of  European  events  his  scep- 
ticism, irony,  and  pessimism  have  given  way  to 
pity  and  tenderness  for  human  suffering.  The 
son  of  the  bookseller  Thibaut  may  figure,  some 
day,  in  a  modern  hagiography  of  those  lay- 
saints  who  fought  for  a  new  spiritual  freedom. 

The  subject-matter  composing  Sur  la  Voie 
154 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

Glorieuse  is  altogether  patriotic  and  contains 
much  that  is  striking.  The  cloven  hoof  of  the 
original  faun  that  lurks  somewhere  in  this 
Frenchman's  temperament  is  shown  in  a  pas- 
sage wherein  he  groups  the  Christmas  festival 
with  other  antique  festivals  and  symbols  of 
Adonis  and  Mithra.  A  pagan  to  the  end.  Pos- 
sibly the  best  pages  are  devoted  to  a  free  trans- 
lation from  Herodotus,  a  dialogue  between  the 
potentate  Xerxes  and  a  Spartan  slave.  The 
moral  rings  clear.  Of  quite  different  material  is 
fashioned  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels.  We  can- 
not conscientiously  recommend  the  fiction  to 
elderly  persons  of  either  sex,  though,  no  doubt, 
it  is  favorite  reading  of  the  "advanced"  college 
girl.  What  would  be  vulgarity  in  another  writer 
is  turned  to  favor  and  prettiness  by  the  wand 
of  the  Gallic  enchanter.  Violence,  rapine,  hiss- 
ing irony,  and  Rabelaisian  episodes  make  a  feast 
for  lovers  of  Anatolian  literature.  Those  who 
have  retained  any  old-fashioned  prejudices  con- 
cerning propriety  —  morality  is  out  of  the  run- 
ning —  may  expect  to  be  shocked.  Has  he  not 
said:  "Man,  seek  not  to  know  thyself !  Man  is 
not  a  reasoning  animal." 

In  this  fable  the  deity  that  created  us  is  in 
the  new  cosmology  only  a  tribal  god,  who,  since 
he  deposed  Lucifer  in  pitched  battle,  rules  ty- 
rannically. He  keeps  close  watch  on  our  mud- 
pie  of  a  planet  because  he  suspects  that  numer- 
ous angels  disguised  as  men  and  women  are 
fomenting  a  second  angelic  rebellion.  With 
155 


BEDOUINS 

them  are  the  socialists  and  anarchists,  and  this 
gives  M.  France  an  opportunity  to  score  monar- 
chical forms  of  government.  The  clerical  order 
is  lashed.  He  spares  no  one.  He  repeats  his 
familiar  axiom:  "Les  guerres  sont  tou jours  les 
affaires."  There  are  pages  in  which  sensuality 
and  sheer  burlesque  are  mingled  in  a  disquieting 
compound.  The  book  is  one  of  the  most  dar- 
ing. In  its  essence  it  is  a  supreme  revolt  against 
all  social  systems  that  uphold  slavery:  indus- 
trial, militaristic,  religious,  political.  The  de- 
basing Asiatic  systems  that  still  make  captive 
the  conscience  of  mankind  are  mercilessly  at- 
tacked, and  while  the  castigating  hand  is  in- 
cased in  velvet  the  shining  steel  is  none  the  less 
deadly. 

Constable,  the  English  landscapist,  said  that  a 
good  thing  can't  be  done  twice.  Anatole  France 
has  demonstrated  the  contrary  in  his  latest,  let  us 
hope  not  his  last  book,  Le  Petit  Pierre,  another 
series  of  exquisite  notations  of  childhood.  His 
delightful  Livre  de  Mon  Ami  gave  us  glimpses  of 
his  early  days.  Fascinating  are  the  chapters  de- 
voted to  Pierre  and  Suzanne  in  this  memoir. 
The  tenderness  of  M.  France,  and  his  power  of 
summoning  up  the  wonder  and  awe  of  our  youth, 
may  be  seen  in  Abeille;  the  development  of  the 
lad  is  followed  in  Pierre  Noziere.  A  portrait  of 
the  young  Anatole  reveals  his  excessive  sensibil- 
ity. His  head  was  large,  the  brow  too  broad  for 
the  feminine  chin,  though  the  long  nose  and  firm 
mouth  contradict  possible  weakness  in  the  lower 

156 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

part  of  the  face.  It  was  in  the  eyes  that  the 
future  of  the  child  might  have  been  read — they 
were  lustrous,  in  shape  beautiful,  with  a  fulness 
that  argued  eloquence  and  imagination.  Such 
eyes  were  possessed  by  the  boy  Charles  Dickens. 
France  has  told  us  that  he  was  a  strange  child, 
whose  chief  ambition  was  to  be  a  saint,  a  second 
St.  Simon  Stylites,  and  after  that  thrilling  ex- 
perience to  write  a  history  of  France  in  fifty 
volumes!  In  Le  Petit  Pierre  his  memory  for 
the  important  little  events  of  a  child's  exist- 
ence is  unusual;  evidently  nothing  has  been  in- 
vented, all  happened.  Through  the  haze  of  the 
immemorial  years  there  now  and  then  sharply 
shines  some  significant  incident,  some  old  wives' 
tales,  a  portrait  of  an  elderly  contemporary  — 
like  the  Balzacian  Uncle  Hyacinthe  or  the  in- 
comparable evocation  of  the  beloved  servant 
Melanie — a  dog,  like  Caire,  the  truant  parrot, 
the  boy  chimney-sweep,  and  the  sweet  smile  of 
Pierre's  mother,  who  seems  to  be  every  one's 
mother  so  admirably  generalized  is  the  type  — 
what  a  magician  is  this  writer!  Told  with 
naivete  and  verve,  we  feel  in  every  page  of  Le 
Petit  Pierre  the  charm  of  personality. 

In  clarity  Anatole  France  is  the  equal  of 
Renan  and  John  Henry  Newman,  and,  while  at 
one  time  clarity  was  a  conventional  quality 
of  French  prose,  it  is  rarer  to-day.  Symbolism 
has  supervened,  if  not  to  darken  counsel,  cer- 
tainly to  trouble  verbal  values.  Never  synco- 
pated, moving  at  a  moderate  tempo,  in  transi- 
157 


BEDOUINS 

tions  smooth,  replete  with  sensitive  rejections, 
crystalline  in  diction,  a  lover  and  a  master  of 
large,  luminous  words,  the  very  marrow  of  the 
man,  Anatole  France  is  in  his  style.  And  what 
a  model  he  should  be  for  those  wilful  young 
writers  who  boast  that  lumpy,  graceless  para- 
graphs are  better  suited  to  their  subjects  than 
swift,  clear,  concise  prose.  It  was  not  so  long 
ago  that  one  scribe  positively  glorified  in  his 
own  dull  style;  he  asserted  that  it  was  a  truth- 
ful reflection  of  his  drab  themes.  There  is,  in- 
deed, such  a  thing  as  an  apposite  garbing,  a 
verbal  orchestration.  The  pellucid  sentences  of 
Mr.  Howells,  so  free  from  the  overblown,  are 
happily  wedded  to  his  admirable  character  etch- 
ing. Flaubert,  master  of  ornate,  or  "  numer- 
ous" prose,  as  well  as  cool,  rhythmic  prose, 
wrote  Salammbo  in  a  purple,  splendid  key,  and 
Madame  Bovary  in  the  greyer  tonalities  of  the 
province;  yet  nothing  could  be  further  removed 
from  the  style  of  either  novel  than  Sentimental 
Education,  which  is  urban  and  suffused  with 
sober  daylight.  It  was  a  favorite  contention  of 
de  Gourmont  that  at  his  sovereign  best  Flaubert 
is  to  be  found  in  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet,  the  style 
of  which  is  sinewy,  pregnant,  powerful.  The 
principal  mistake  of  beginners  is  to  believe  that 
ornament  is  good  style.  In  Anatole  France 
matter  and  manner  are  perfectly  welded. 

Few  writers  swim  so  easily  as  he  under  their 
heavy*burdens  of  erudition.    His  knowledge  is 
precise,  his  range  wide.    He  is  a  humanist.    He 
158 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

knows  many  literatures.  He  loves  learning  for 
the  sake  of  learning.  He  loves  words,  treasures 
them,  fondles  them,  burnishes  anew  their  mean- 
ings tarnished  by  custom.  He  seldom  tarries  in 
the  half-way  house  of  epigram.  Over  all,  his 
interest  in  humanity  sheds  a  tranquil  glow. 
Without  a  marked  feeling  for  the  dramatic, 
nevertheless,  he  surprises  mankind  engaged  in 
its  minute  daily  acts;  those  he  renders  as  can- 
didly as  snow  in  the  sunshine;  just  as  the  old 
Dutch  painters  stir  our  "emotion  of  recognition  " 
with  a  simple  shaft  of  light  passing  through  a 
half -open  door,  or  upon  an  old  wrinkled  woman 
polishing  her  spectacles.  He  sees  and  notes 
many  gestures,  inutile  or  tragic,  and  notes  them 
with  the  enthralling  simplicity  of  a  complicated 
artistic  nature.  He  deals  with  ideas  so  vitally 
that  they  seem  human.  Yet  his  personages  are 
never  abstractions,  nor  do  they  serve  as  pallid 
allegories.  They  are  all  alive  from  Sylvestre 
Bonnard  to  the  group  that  meets  to  chat  in  the 
Foro  Romano  (Sur  la  Pierre  Blanche) ;  from  his 
Penguins  to  his  Angels.  A  dog,  a  cat,  he  de- 
picts with  the  same  love;  his  dog  Riquet  bids 
fair  to  endure  in  literature.  France  is  an  in- 
terpreter of  life,  not  precisely  after  the  manner 
of  the  novelist,  but  life  as  viewed  through  the 
temperament  of  a  poet  of  extreme  delicacy  and 
one  doubled  by  a  tolerant  philosopher. 

This  ultramodern  thinker,  who  has  outgrown 
the  despotism  of  positivist  dogma,  has  the  soul 
of  a  chameleon.  He  loves,  he  understands, 


BEDOUINS 

Christianity  with  a  fervor  and  a  knowledge  that 
surprise,  until  we  measure  the  depth  of  his 
affection  for  antique  cultures.  Further  to  con- 
fuse us,  he  exhibits  sympathy  with  the  Hebraic 
lore.  He  has  rifled  the  Talmud  for  half-forgot- 
ten tales.  He  delights  in  juxtaposing  the  Greek 
sophist  and  the  strenuous  Paul.  He  contrasts 
Mary  Magdalen  repentant  with  a  pampered 
Roman  matron.  He  is  familiar  with  the  pro- 
ceeds of  science,  particularly  astronomy.  With 
the  scholastic  speculations  of  the  Renaissance, 
with  the  simple  affirmations  of  mediaeval  piety, 
he  is  as  conversant  as  with  the  destructive  pyr- 
rhonism  of  a  boulevard  philosopher.  So  com- 
mingled are  his  contradictory  cultures,  so  nu- 
merous his  angles,  so  avid  of  impressions  is  he, 
that  we  end  in  wholly  admiring  the  exercise  of 
a  beneficent  magic  that  can  blend  into  a  happy 
synthesis  moral  dissonances  and  harmonize  such 
a  bewildering  moral  preciosity.  But  there  are 
moments  when  we  regard  the  operation  as  intel- 
lectual legerdemain.  We  suspect  dupery.  How- 
ever, it  is  his  humor  that  is  the  most  potent  of 
his  solvents.  This  humor  often  transforms  a 
doubtful  battle  into  radiant  victory.  We  see 
him,  the  protagonist  of  his  own  psychical  com- 
edy, dancing  on  a  tight  rope  in  the  airiest  fash- 
ion, deliciously  capering  in  the  metaphysical 
void,  and,  like  a  prestidigitator,  bidding  us  doubt 
the  very  existence  of  his  rope. 

Proofs  from  life  gay  pagan  Anatole  does  not 
demand.    He  has  the  hesitations  of  profound 
160 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

erudition.  Possessing  the  gift  of  paradox,  he 
rejoices  in  his  philosophic  indifferentism.  Not- 
withstanding his  famous  phrase,  "the  mania  of 
certitude,"  Renan  was  ever  pursued  by  the  idea 
of  an  Absolute.  He  cried  for  proof.  To  Ber- 
tholet  he  wrote:  "I  am  eager  for  mathematics." 
To  him  numbers  promised  rigid  reality.  Not 
so,  however,  to  M.  France,  who  could  have 
asked  with  Ibsen  whether  two  added  to  two  do 
not  make  five  on  the  planet  Jupiter !  To  Mon- 
taigne's "What  know  I?"  he  opposes  the  injunc- 
tion of  Rabelais:  "Do  what  thou  wilt!"  Of 
Plato  he  might  have  asked,  "What  is  Truth?" 
and  if  Plato  in  turn  would  have  posed  the  same 
question,  Anatole  could  reply  by  handing  him  a 
copy  of  Jardin  d'Epicure,  that  perfect  breviary 
of  Anatolian  scepticism.  In  Socrates  perhaps 
he  would  discover  a  congenial  companion;  yet  he 
might  mischievously  allude  to  Montaigne  "con- 
cerning cats,"  or  quote  Aristotle  as  to  the  form 
of  hats.  And  then  we  spy  him  adorning  the 
Wheel  of  Ixion  with  garlands.  A  wilful  child  of 
belles-lettres  and  philosophy,  M.  France  always 
may  be  expected  to  utter  the  starting,  lucent 
phrase. 

He  believes  in  the  belief  of  God.  By  the 
gods  of  all  times  and  climes  he  swears.  His  the 
cosmic  soul.  A  man  who  infuses  into  his  tales 
something  of  the  Mimes  of  Herondas,  La  Bru- 
yere's  Characters,  and  the  Lucian  Dialogues, 
with  faint  flavors  of  Racine  and  La  Fontaine 
superadded,  may  be  pardoned  his  polychromatic 
161 


BEDOUINS 

faiths.  This  chromatism  in  creeds,  a  trust  in 
all  or  none,  is  rather  diverting.  But  the  classic 
world  of  thought  shows  several  exemplars  for 
M.  France,  from  the  followers  of  Aristippus  to 
the  Sophists.  Nevertheless,  there  is  a  specific 
note  of  individuality,  a  roulade  altogether  Ana- 
tolian in  the  Parisian.  No  one  but  this  accom- 
plished sceptic  could  have  devised  The  Opinions 
of  Jerome  Coignard,  and  his  scheme  for  a  Bureau 
of  Vanity  (Villiers  de  ITsle  Adam  invented  a 
machine  for  manufacturing  glory).  "Man  is  an 
animal  with  a  musket,"  declares  Anatole.  Here 
is  a  morsel  for  hypocrites:  "Even  virtue  may  be 
unduly  praised.  Since  it  is  overcoming  which 
constitutes  merit,  we  must  recognize  that  it  is 
concupiscence  which  makes  saints. J '  This  sounds 
like  William  Blake  done  into  choice  French; 
Blake  who  has  said  that  "the  fool  cannot  enter 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  be  he  ever  so  pious"; 
that  Blake  who  believed  that  the  road  to  wis- 
dom lies  through  the  valley  of  excess. 

Henry  James  has  declared  that  the  province 
of  art  is  all  life,  all  feeling,  all  observation,  all 
vision.  According  to  this  rubric,  M.  France  is 
a  many-sided  artist.  Philosopher  as  well,  he 
plays  with  the  appearances  of  life,  lifting  be- 
times the  edge  of  the  curtain  to  curdle  the  blood 
of  his  spectators  with  the  sight  of  Buddha's 
shadow  in  some  grim  cavern  beyond.  He  shows 
his  Gallic  tact  in  decorating  the  empty  spaces 
of  theory  and  the  blank  spots  of  reality.  A  fol- 
lower of  Kant,  in  his  denial  of  the  objective,  we 
162 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

cannot  imagine  him  approving  of  that  sage's 
admiration  of  the  starry  heavens  and  the  moral 
law.  Both  are  relative,  would  be  the  report  of 
the  Frenchman.  Yet  he  yearns  for  faith.  He 
humbles  himself  beneath  the  humblest.  He  ex- 
cels in  exposing  the  splendor  of  the  simple  soul, 
though  faith  has  not  anointed  his  intellect  with 
its  chrism.  He  admires  the  golden  filigree  of 
the  ciborium;  its  spiritual  essence  escapes  him. 
At  the  portals  of  Paradise  he  lingers,  or  stoops 
to  pick  a  rare  and  richly  colored  feather.  He 
eloquently  vaunts  its  fabulous  beauty.  But  he 
hears  not  the  whirring  of  the  wings  whence 
it  has  fallen.  Pagan  in  his  irony,  his  pity 
wholly  Christian,  Anatole  France  betrays  a 
nuance  of  Petronius  and  a  touch  of  St.  Francis. 
Because  of  this  spiritual  dislocation  —  or  dare  I 
say  bilocation  ?  —  he  is  in  art,  letters,  and  life  a 
consummate  flowering  of  the  dilettante. 


163 


XVII 
A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

HERE  is  an  evocation  of  a  projected  Masque 
of  Music.  Not  a  Miltonic  hymn  in  praise  of 
the  melting  art,  nor  yet  an  Alexander's  Feast 
celebrating  its  power,  after  the  manner  of  John 
Dryden,  but  a  grandiose  vision  which  would 
embrace  the  legend  of  sound  from  its  unor- 
ganized beginnings  to  the  to-morrow  of  the  ulti- 
mate Kalmuck.  It  is  written  with  such  men  as 
Reinhardt,  David  Belasco,  Gordon  Craig,  Stan- 
islavsky, Michel  Fokine,  and  Richard  Ordyn- 
ski  in  view.  They,  or  artists  of  their  calibre, 
might  make  the  idea  viable  in  the  theatre. 
What  music  would  best  envelope  my  Masque  is 
a  question  answered  by  the  composers  whose 
names  are  figuratively  deployed.  Or  what  gifted 
American  composers  might  "set"  the  Masque  in 
a  symphonic  poem!  Where  this  kaleidoscope 
would  be  produced  and  how  many  evenings  it 
might  need  for  complete  interpretation  are  puz- 
zles I  do  not  seek  now  to  solve;  suffice  to  add, 
that  I  have  for  the  sake  of  dramatic  unity  placed 
myself  at  the  centre  and  circumference  of  this 
prose  recital,  as  sensations  are  veritable  hallu- 
cinations for  me.  In  a  performance  the  spec- 
tators would  occupy  the  same  relative  position. 
164 


A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

.  .  .  The  curtains  of  Time  and  Space  drew  apart. 
I  stood  on  the  cliff  of  the  World,  saw  and  heard 
the  travailing  and  groaning  of  light  and  sound 
in  the  epochal  and  reverberating  void.  A  pedal- 
bass,  a  diapasonic  tone  that  came  from  the 
bowels  of  the  firmament,  struck  fear  to  my 
heart;  this  tone  was  of  such  magnitude  as  might 
be  overheard  by  the  gods.  No  mortal  ear  could 
have  held  it  without  cracking.  This  gigantic 
flood,  this  cataclysmic  roar,  filled  every  pore  of 
my  body.  It  blew  me  about  as  a  blade  of  grass 
is  blown  in  a  boreal  blast,  yet  I  sensed  the  pitch. 
Inchoate  nature,  the  unrestrained  cry  of  the 
rocks  and  their  buried  secrets  —  crushed  aspira- 
tions, and  the  hidden  sorrows  of  mineral,  plants, 
and  animals  became  vocal.  It  was  the  voice  of 
the  monstrous  abortions  of  nature,  the  groan  of 
incomplete  or  transitional  types,  born  for  a 
moment  and  shattered  forever.  All  God's  mud 
made  moan  for  recognition. 

It  was  night.  The  strong  fair  sky  of  the 
South  was  sown  with  dartings  of  silver  and 
starry  dust.  I  walked  under  the  great  wind- 
bowl  with  its  few  balancing  clouds  and  listened 
to  the  whirrings  of  the  infinite.  I  knew  that  I 
was  close  to  the  core  of  existence,  and  though 
sound  was  less  vibratile  than  light,  sound  touched 
earth,  embraced  it,  and  was  content  with  its 
eld  and  homely  face.  Light,  a  mischievous 
Loge;  Sound,  the  All-Mother  Erda.  I  walked  on. 
My  way  seemed  clearer.  .  .  . 

Reaching  a  plain,  fabulous  and  mighty,  I 

165 


BEDOUINS 

came  upon  a  Sphinx,  half-buried  in  sand  and 
looming  in  the  starlight.  As  I  watched  her  face 
I  felt  that  the  tone  had  ceased  to  surround  me. 
The  dawn  filtered  through  the  dark  and  there 
were  stirrings  abroad  in  the  air.  From  afar 
sounded  a  fluttering  of  thin  tones.  As  the  sun 
shone  rosy  on  the  vast  stone,  like  a  clear-colored 
wind  came  back  the  tone  from  the  sea.  And  in 
the  music-filled  air  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  wor- 
shipped the  Sphinx,  for  music  is  a  window 
through  which  we  gaze  upon  eternity.  Then 
followed  a  strange  musical  rout  of  the  nations; 
I  saw  defile  before  me  Silence,  "eldest  of  all 
things";  Brahma's  consort,  Saraswati,  fingered 
her  Vina,  and  Siva  and  his  hideous  mate,  Devi, 
sometimes  called  Durga;  and  the  brazen  heavens 
were  like  a  typhoon  that  showered  appalling 
evils  upon  mankind.  All  the  gods  of  Egypt 
and  Assyria,  dog-faced,  moon-breasted,  and 
menacing,  passed  playing  upon  dreams,  making 
choric  music,  black  and  fuliginous.  The  sacred 
Ibis  stalked  in  the  silvery  footsteps  of  the 
Houris;  the  Graces  held  hands.  Phoebus  Apollo 
appeared.  His  face  was  as  a  shining  shield. 
He  improvised  upon  a  many-stringed  lyre  of 
tortoise-shell,  and  his  music  was  shimmering  and 
symphonious.  Hermes  and  his  Syrinx  wooed 
the  shy  Euterpe;  the  maidens  went  in  woven 
paces,  a  medley  of  masques  flamed  by,  and  the 
great  god  Pan  breathed  into  his  pipes. 

I  saw  Bacchus  pursued  by  ravening  Maenads, 
saw  Lamia  and  her  ophidian  flute,  as  Orpheus 
166 


A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

sorrowfully  sped,  searching  his  Eurydice.  Nep- 
tune blew  his  wreathed  horn.  The  Tritons  gam- 
bolled in  the  waves.  Cybele  changed  her  cym- 
bals. And  with  his  music  Amphion  summoned 
rocks  to  Thebes.  Jepthah  danced  to  her  death 
before  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  praising  the 
Lord  God  of  Israel.  Unabashed  behind  her 
leered  the  rhythmic  Herodias,  while  were  heard 
the  praiseful  songs  of  Deborah  and  Barak  as 
St.  Caecilia  smote  the  keyboard.  With  her 
timbrel  Miriam  sang  hymns  of  triumph.  Before 
the  Persian  Satrap  on  his  purple  litter  Abyssinian 
girls,  their  little  breasts  carolling  to  the  sky, 
alluringly  swayed;  the  air  was  crowded  by  the 
crisp  tinklings  of  tiny  bells  at  wrist  and  ankles 
as  the  Kabaros  drummed;  and  hard  by  in  the 
brake  brown  nymphs  moved  in  languorous 
rhythms,  droning  hoarse  sacrificial  chants.  The 
colossus  Memnon  hymned,  priests  of  Baal 
screamed  as  they  lacerated  themselves  with 
knives,  Druid  priestesses  crooned  sybillic  incan- 
tations. And  over  this  pageant  of  Woman  and 
Music  the  proud  sun  of  old  Egypt  scattered 
splendid  burning  rays. 

From  distant  strands  and  hillsides  came  the 
noise  of  unholy  instruments  with  names,  sweet- 
sounding,  and  clashing.  Nofres  from  the  Nile, 
Ravanastrons  of  Ceylon,  Javanese  gongs,  Chi- 
nese Pavilions,  Tambourahs,  Sackbuts,  Shawms, 
Psalteries,  Dulcimers,  Salpinxes,  Keras,  Tim- 
brels, Sistra,  Crotala,  double  flutes,  twenty- 
two  stringed  harps,  Kerrenas,  the  Indian  flute 
167 


BEDOUINS 

called  Yo,  and  the  quaint  Yamato-Koto.  Fol- 
lowed fast  the  Biwa,  the  Gekkin,  and  its  cousin 
the  Genkwan;  the  Ku,  named  after  a  horrid  god; 
the  Shunga  and  its  cluttering  strings,  the  Sama- 
sien,  the  Kokyu,  the  Vamato  Fuye  —  which 
breathed  moon-eyed  melodies  —  the  Hichi-Riki, 
and  the  Shaku-Hachi.  The  Sho  was  mouthed 
by  slant-haired  yellow  boys,  while  the  sharp  roll 
of  drums  covered  with  goatskins  never  ceased. 
From  this  bedlam  there  occasionally  emerged  a 
splinter  of  tune  like  a  plank  thrown  up  by  the 
sea.  No  melody  could  I  discern,  though  I 
grasped  its  beginnings.  Double  flutes  gave  me 
the  modes:  Dorian,  Phrygian,  ^Eolian,  Lydian, 
Ionian;  after  Sappho  and  her  Mixo-Lydian  mode 
I  longed  for  a  modern  accord. 

The  choir  went  whirling  on  with  Citharas,  Re- 
becs, Citoles,  Domras,  Goules,  Serpents,  Crwths, 
Pentachords,  Rebabs,  Pantalons,  Conches,  Flag- 
eolets made  of  Pelican  bones,  Tams-tams,  Caril- 
lons, Xylophones,  Crescents  of  beating  bells, 
Mandoras,  Whistling  Vases  of  clay,  Zampognas, 
Zithers,  Bugles,  Octochords,  Naccaras  or  Turk- 
ish Castanets,  and  Quinternas.  I  heard  blare 
the  two  hundred  thousand  curved  trumpets 
which  Solomon  had  made  for  his  Temple,  and 
the  forty  thousand  which  accompanied  the 
Psalms  of  David.  Jubal  played  his  Magrepha. 
Pythagoras  came  with  his  Monochord.  To  the 
music  of  the  Spheres  Plato  listened.  The  priests 
of  Joshua  blew  seven  times  upon  Shofars,  or 
rams-horns.  Then  fell  the  walls  of  Jericho.  To 
168 


A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

this  came  a  challenging  blast  from  the  terrible 
horn  of  Roland  of  Roncesvalles.  The  air  had  the 
resonance  of  hell  as  the  Guatemalan  Indians  wor- 
shipped their  Black  Christ  upon  the  Plaza;  and 
naked  Ishtar,  Daughter  of  Sin,  stood  shivering 
before  the  Seventh  Gate.  A  great  silence  en- 
sued. I  saw  a  green  star  drop  over  Judea  and 
thought  music  itself  were  slain.  The  pilgrims 
with  their  Jew's-harps  dispersed  into  sorrowful 
groups.  Blackness  usurped  the  sonorous  sun. 
There  was  no  music  in  all  the  universe,  and  this 
tonal  eclipse  lasted  long.  From  remote  coasts 
came  faint  cries:  The  Great  God  Pan  is  dead! 
They  have  slain  Our  Lord  and  we  know  not 
where  to  find  Hun.  .  .  . 

I  heard  as  if  in  a  magic  mirror  the  submerged 
music  of  Dufay,  Okeghem,  Josquin  Depres,  Or- 
lando di  Lasso,  Goudimel,  and  Luther;  the  cathe- 
dral tones  of  Palestrina,  the  frozen  sweetness  of 
Arezzo,  Frescobaldi,  Monteverde,  Carissimi,  Tar- 
tini,  Corelli,  Scarlatti,  Jomelli,  Pergolesi,  Lulli, 
Rameau,  Couperin,  Buxtehude,  Sweelinck,  Byrd, 
Gibbons,  Purcell,  and  the  Bach;  with  their  Lutes, 
Monochords,  Virginals,  Harpsichords,  Clavicy- 
therums,  Clavichords,  Cembalos,  Spinets,  Theor- 
bos, Organs,  and  Pianofortes,  and  accompanying 
them  an  army,  vast,  formidable,  of  the  immemo- 
rial virtuosi,  singers,  castrati,  the  night-moths 
and  midgets  of  music.  Like  wraiths  they  waved 
desperate  ineffectual  hands  and  made  sad  mim- 
ickings  of  their  dead  and  dusty  triumphs.  .  .  . 
Again  I  heard  the  Chromatic  Fantasia  of  Bach, 
169 


BEDOUINS 

ever  new,  yet  old.  In  its  weaving  sonant  pat- 
terns were  the  detonations  of  the  primeval  world 
I  had  just  left;  also  something  disquieting  and 
feminine.  But  the  Man  predominates  in  Bach, 
subtle,  nervous,  magnetic  as  he  is  in  this  Fan- 
tasia. 

A  mincing,  courtly  old  woman  bows  low.  It 
is  Joseph  Haydn,  and  there  is  sprightly  malice  in 
his  music.  The  glorious  periwigged  giant  of 
London  conducts  a  chorus  of  a  million.  The 
hailstones  of  Handel  pelt  the  pate  of  the  Sphinx. 
"A  man!"  I  cried,  as  the  very  heavens  stormed 
out  their  cadenced  hallelujahs.  A  divine  youth 
approaches.  His  mien  is  excellent,  and  his  voice 
of  rare  sweetness.  His  band  discourses  ravish- 
ing music.  The  primeval  tone  is  there,  but  fem- 
inized, graceful;  troupes  of  painted  stage  players 
in  fallals  and  furbelows  present  pictures  of 
rakes,  rustic  maidens,  and  fantastics.  An  or- 
chestra minces  as  Mozart  disappears.  Behold, 
the  great  one  approaches,  and  beneath  his  Jovian 
tread  the  earth  trembles !  Beethoven,  the  sub- 
lime peasant,  the  conqueror,  the  god !  All  that 
has  gone  before,  all  that  is  to  be,  is  globed  in 
his  symphonies,  was  divined  by  this  seer.  A 
man,  the  first  since  Handel!  And  the  eagles 
triumphantly  jostle  the  scarred  face  of  the 
Sphinx.  Von  Weber  prances  by  on  his  gayly 
caparisoned  arpeggios,  Meyerbeer  and  Verdi  fol- 
low; all  three  footlight  folk.  Schubert,  a  pan- 
pipe through  which  the  wind  discourses  exquisite 
melodies;  Gluck,  whose  lyre  is  stringed  Greek 
170 


A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

fashion,  but  bedecked  with  Parisian  gauds  and 
ribbons;  Mendelssohn,  a  charming,  girlish  echo 
of  Bach;  Chopin  and  Schumann,  romantic  wres- 
tlers with  their  muted  dreams,  strugglers  against 
ineffable  madness  and  sorely  stricken  at  the  end ; 
Berlioz,  a  primitive  Roc,  half-bird,  half-human, 
also  a  Minotaur  who  dragged  to  his  Crete  all 
the  music  of  the  Masters;  and  the  Turk  of  the 
keyboard,  Franz  Liszt,  with  Cymbalom,  Czardas, 
and  crazy  Kalamaikas  pass.  But  suddenly  I 
noted  a  shriller  tonal  accent,  the  accent  of  a 
sun  that  has  lost  its  sex,  a  sun  that  is  stricken 
with  moon-sickness.  A  hybrid  appears,  fol- 
lowed by  a  cohort  of  players.  A  huge  orchestra 
plays  straightway;  the  Sphinx  wears  a  sinister 
smile.  .  .  . 

Then  I  saw  the  tone-color  of  each  instrument. 
Some  malign  enchanter  had  diverted  from  their 
natural  uses  every  member  of  the  tonal  army. 
I  saw  the  strings  in  rainbow  hues,  red  trumpets, 
blue  flutes,  green  oboes,  purple  clarinets,  horns 
glorious  golden  yellow,  scarlet  trombones,  dark- 
brown  bassoons,  carmilion  ophecleides,  as  the 
drums  punctured  space  with  ebon  crepitations. 
That  the  triangle  always  had  been  silver  I  never 
questioned,  but  this  new  chromatic  blaze,  these 
novel  tin  tings  of  tone  —  what  did  they  portend? 
Was  it  a  symbol  of  the  further  degradation  and 
effeminization  of  music?  Was  art  become  as  the 
sigh  of  a  woman?  A  vain,  selfish  goddess  was 
about  to  be  placed  on  high  and  worshipped ;  soon 
the  rustling  of  silk  would  betray  her  sex.  Re- 
171 


BEDOUINS 

leased  from  the  wise  bonds  imposed  upon  her 
by  Mother  Church,  music  is  now  a  parasite  of 
the  emotions,  a  modern  Circe  whose  "feet  take 
hold  on  hell,"  whose  wand  enchants  men  into 
listening  swine.  Gigantic  as  antediluvian  ferns, 
as  evil-smelling  and  as  dangerous,  music  in  the 
hands  of  this  magician  is  dowered  with  ambigu- 
ous attitudes,  with  anonymous  gestures,  is  color 
become  sound,  sensuality  masking  as  chaste 
beauty.  This  Klingsor  evirates,  effeminates, 
disintegrates.  He  is  the  spirit  who  denies  all 
things  natural,  and  his  revengeful  theatric  music 
goes  about  in  the  guise  of  a  woman.  She  has- 
tens its  end,  its  spiritual  suicide  is  at  hand.  I 
lifted  my  eyes.  Surely  I  recognized  that  short, 
dominating  figure  conducting  the  orchestra. 
Was  it  the  tragic  comedian,  Richard  Wagner? 
Were  those  his  mocking,  ardent  eyes  fading  in 
the  morbid  mist? 

A  fat,  cowled  monk  stealthily  marches  after 
him.  He  shades  his  eyes  from  the  fierce  rays  of 
the  Wagnerian  sun;  to  him  more  grateful  are 
moon-rays  and  the  reflected  light  of  lonely  forest 
pools.  He  is  the  Arch-Hypocrite  of  Tone,  and 
he  speaks  in  divers  tongues.  Brahms  it  is  and 
he  wears  the  mask  of  a  musical  masquerader. 
Then  swirled  by  a  band  of  gypsies,  with  guitars, 
castanets,  and  led  by  Bizet.  Spain  seemed 
familiar  land,  Spain  with  the  odors  of  the  bou- 
doir. Gounod  and  Faust  go  simpering  on  tip- 
toe; a  disorderly  mass  of  Cossacks  stampeded 
them,  Tchaikovsky  at  their  head.  They  yelled 
172 


A  MASQUE  OF  MUSIC 

as  they  banged  upon  resounding  Svirelis,  Bala- 
laikas, and  Kobzas,  dancing  the  Ziganka  all  the 
while.  And  as  a  still  more  horrible  uproar  was 
heard  I  became  suddenly  conscious  of  a  change 
on  the  face  of  the  Sphinx;  streaked  with  grey 
it  seemed  to  be  crumbling.  As  the  clatter  in- 
creased I  diverted  my  regard  from  the  massive 
stone  and  beheld  an  orgiastic  mob  of  men  and 
women  howling  and  playing  upon  instruments  of 
fulgurating  colors  and  vile  shapes.  Their  skins 
were  white,  their  hair  yellow,  their  eyes  of  vic- 
torious blue. 

"Nietzsche's  Blond  Barbarians,  the  Apes  of 
Wagner!"  I  exclaimed,  and  I  felt  the  ground 
giving  away.  The  naked  music,  pulsatile  and 
opium-charged,  turned  hysterical  as  Zarathustra- 
Strauss  waved  on  his  myrmidons  with  frenzied 
philosophical  motions.  Music  was  become  ver- 
tiginous, a  mad  vortex  wherein  whirled  mad 
atoms  madly  embracing.  Dancing,  the  disso- 
nant corybantes  of  the  Dionysiac  evangel  scarce 
touched  earth,  thus  outvying  the  bacchantes. 
The  roar  of  enemy  cannon  pursued  them  as  the 
last  Superman  yielded  his  ghost  to  the  Time- 
Spirit.  .  .  . 

Then  there  gravely  marched  a  group  of  men 
of  cold  cerebral  expression.  They  carried  steel 
hammers  with  which  they  beat  upon  their  anvils 
the  whole-tone  scale.  Near  by  hovered  Arnold 
Schoenberg  with  Claude  Debussy,  but  they  put 
their  fingers  into  their  pained  ears  as  the  Neo- 
Scythians,  Scriabine  Stravinsky,  Ornstein  and 
173 


BEDOUINS 

Prokofieff  hammered  with  excruciating  dynamics 
hell  itself  into  icy  enharmonic  splinters.  With 
thunderous  peals  of  ironic  laughter  the  Sphinx 
sank  into  the  sand,  yawning  as  it  vanished  and 
mumbling:  "No  longer  are  there  dissonances, 
Nothing  is  true.  All  is  permitted!"  By  a 
mighty  effort  to  escape  the  nipping  arctic  air 
and  the  harsh  grindings  of  impending  icebergs, 
I  fled. 
And  that  is  my  Masque  of  Music. 


174 


PART  II 
IDOLS  AND  AMBERGRIS 

"  Idols  and  ambergris  and  rare  inlays.  .  .  ." 

—Ezra  Pound. 


I 

THE  SUPREME  SIN 

'Et  Diabolus  incarnatus  est.    Et  homo  factus  est." 
— From  the  Litany  of  the  Damned  Saints. 

"Shall  no  new  sin  be  born  for  men's  trouble?" 

— Swinburne. 

*' Let  us  deny  Satan!" 

— -Sar  Piladan. 


IDLY  tapping  the  metal-topped  table  of  the 
cafe  with  his  stick,  Oswald  Invern  waited  for 
the  Hollin  boys.  They  had  promised,  the  night 
before,  to  be  punctual.  It  was  past  eleven  and 
the  pair  had  not  turned  up;  he  was  bored,  ir- 
ritated. If  they  couldn't  remember  their  en- 
gagement, well  and  good;  but  why ! 

"Oswald,  have  we  kept  you  waiting?"  in- 
toned two  pleasant  tenor  voices.  There  they 
were  at  last!  Oswald  made  room  for  them  on 
the  divan  and  at  once  the  twin  brothers  be- 
gan smoking.  Harry  fetched  a  pipe  from  the 
bulging  pocket  of  his  coat  and  Willy  lighted  a 
cigarette.  It  was  their  pet  affectation  to  pre- 
tend that  they  disliked  any  suggestion  of  twin- 
ship.  Willy  wore  high  heels  and  fashionably 
cut  clothes  so  as  to  appear  taller  than  his 
177 


BEDOUINS 

brother,  while  Harry  sported  Bohemian  velvet 
and  a  broad-brimmed  hat.  But  both  agreed 
as  to  art  and  brotherly  love.  People  endured 
them  for  these  salient  traits,  though  Oswald 
declared  that  it  only  made  them  the  more 
stupid. 

"No  headache  this  morning,  Oswald?" 
"No  heartache  this  morning,  Oswald?" 
The  young  man  envied  them  as  they  pulled 
their  fan-shaped  beards  and  sipped  their  ver- 
mouth-citron.    They   were   in   key   with   the 
cosmos  and  he  was  not. 

"Neither  one  nor  the  other,"  he  absently 
replied. 

"But  is  not  Miss  Tilney  a  charmer?  I  saw 
you  looking  at  her  the  entire  evening.  Come 
now,  say?"  Harry  Hollin  spoke  with  en- 
thusiasm. Invern  slowly  shook  his  head  and 
he  continued  to  gaze  down  the  Boulevard  de 
Vaugirard.  The  cafe  stood  at  the  meeting  of 
this  boulevard  and  the  Place  du  Maine,  across 
from  the  Gare  Mont-Parnasse.  The  Avenue 
du  Maine  intersected  the  Place  and,  while  be- 
yond lay  the  choicer  precincts  of  the  Quarter, 
there  was  no  spot  on  the  "left  bank"  that  was 
gayer  in  silent  weather  or  duller  when  the  rain 
fell.  This  particular  morning  the  sky  reported  a 
delicate  pigeon-blue,  a  nuance  that  occasion- 
ally may  be  seen  in  Paris  after  a  storm;  it  had 
withdrawn  above  the  housetops  and  was  im- 
measurably far  away;  a  melochromatic  horizon 
was  tinged  with  flushes  of  pink  and  ochre. 
178 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

The  twins  followed  Oswald's  eyes  and  boiled 
over  ecstatically: 

"What  tones!''  cried  Harry. 

"I  could  model  them  in  precious  gems!"  ex- 
claimed his  brother. 

"There  you  go,  with  your  atelier  slang," 
muttered  their  companion.  "  I've  been  in  Paris 
ten  years  longer  than  you  and  you  beat  me  as 
a  Frenchman." 

"Qa  ne  biche  pas?"  Harry  continued.  "It's 
lovely." 

"Oui,  c'est  kif  — kif!"  chimed  his  brother. 
Invern  watched  them,  the  echo  of  a  smile 
sounding  across  his  compressed  lips.  He  was 
not  more  than  twenty-eight;  a  slender  figure 
proclaimed  his  youth.  The  head  was  well  set 
on  his  shoulders.  It  was  the  expression  of  his 
.frowning  forehead  and  large,  dark,  heavy  eyes 
that  made  the  man  look  much  older.  Not 
dissipation,  rather  discontent,  marred  features 
of  a  Byzantine  type.  Yes,  he  had  been  thirteen 
years  in  Paris  and  these  foolish  good-hearted 
fellows  only  three;  but  they  knew  the  argot  of 
the  Beaux-Arts  better  than  he,  and  they  openly 
boasted  their  anti- Americanism.  He  asked 
them: 

"Frankly,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourselves  in  America  —  when  you  get  there?" 
They  answered  in  happy  unison:  "Make 
money." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Make  money  by  selling  tombstones  —  that's 
179 


BEDOUINS 

you,  Willy!  —  and  painting  society  dames  in 
impossible  attitudes,  tints,  and  expressions  — 
that's  you,  Harry." 

"Never  mind  us,  Invern.  You  may  never 
go,  but  if  you  do  —  a  comic  opera  with  a  howl- 
ing success  is  our  wish." 

"I'll  never  return  —  now,"  said  Invern. 
"The  cursed  microbe  of  artistic  Paris  is  in  my 
system.  And,  what's  more,  I'll  never  do  any- 
thing. When  a  Yankee  comes  over  here  to 
paint  he  tries  to  paint  like  a  Frenchman.  Look 
at  the  three  Salons  with  their  half-baked  imi- 
tations. Let  me  finish"  —  the  brothers  had 
lifted  angry  shoulders  — "  and  if  a  Yankee 
studies  music  here  he  composes  French  music 
ever  afterward  —  French  music  which  is  a  sad 
mixture  of  German  and  Italian;  eclectic  style, 
the  wise  ones  call  it." 

"And  if  he  goes  to  Germany?"  demanded 
Harry. 

"Then  he  composes  German  music."  Sud- 
denly Willy  stood  up. 

"  I  have  solved  the  mystery.  This  pessimism, 
Oswald,  is  the  result  of  —  of  —  why,  you're 
in  love,  man !  I  know  her  name.  It's  Miss 
Tilney  —  June  Tilney.  The  secret  is  out." 

"Is  her  name  June?"  asked  Oswald  irrele- 
vantly. 

"It's  June  and  she's  rich  as  the  sound  of  her 
name."  The  Hollin  boys  were  irrepressible 
this  gay  morning. 

"So!    But  why  June?" 
180 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

"You're  interested.  Listen,"  interpolated 
Harry.  "She's  a  Yankee  girl  with  a  Russian 
mother  —  or  had  one  —  and  she  was  educated 
in  London,  Russia,  Italy,  Germany,  Paris " 

"  Go  on !    Why  not  New  York  ?  " 

"She  never  saw  New  York,  but  she  speaks 
United  States." 

"And,"  added  Willy,  "the  Count  hates  it 
like  the  dickens." 

"  What  a  pair  of  rattles  you  are !  Who's  the 
Count?" 

"Why,  Count  Van  Zorn,  her  guardian,  of 
course.  Haven't  you  met  old  Van  Zorn  yet? 
He's  very  musical,  goes  to  all  the  swell  musical 
Salons  of  Paris,  to  the  Princesse  de  Brancovan, 
to  the  Comtesse  de  Blanzay,  to  Duchesse  de 
Bellune,  to  the  Princesse  de  Bibesco  —  "  Oswald 
held  up  his  hands  in  consternation. 

"  Stop !  I  don't  care  a  sou  where  he  goes. 
Who  is  he?" 

"He's  very  rich  and  looks  after  June  Tilney's 
affairs.  And  —  they  say  —  wants  to  marry  her 

—  only    thirty   years'    difference  —  she    won't 
have  it,  though  she  likes  the  old  codger  and  is 
seen  everywhere  with  him  —  and  they  say  the 
Rasta  —  he's  from  Roumania  or  South  America 

—  goes  in  for  magic  and  puts  spells  upon  the 
girl." 

"Drop  the  mufle,"  interrupted  Oswald.  "The 
main  thing  now  is  breakfast.  And,  incidentally, 
why  don't  you  marry  the  girl  yourself,  Willy?" 

"C'est  £  Bibi!"  exclaimed  Harry,  pointing 
181 


BEDOUINS 

to  himself.  "Willy  has  signed  over  all  rights 
and  interests  to  his  loving  brother.  And  we 
have  the  cabot  on  the  run  —  he  will  be  here  in 
five  minutes ";  the  brothers  were  embarrassed 
after  this  statement.  Their  friend  stared  at 
them  shrewdly  for  a  moment  and  then  laughed 
—  one  of  his  rare  "  Rosmersholm  "  laughs,  as  the 
brothers  had  christened  such  a  happening. 

"So  that's  the  game?  Coming  here  to  de- 
jeuner! Miss  June  with  him?"  They  blushed 
over  the  tops  of  their  beards.  Invern  began 
grumbling. 

"Oswald !"  exclaimed  the  boys  deprecatingly; 
they  were  fond  of  him,  notwithstanding  his 
frowns  and  gloomy  moods.  A  waiter  was  sum- 
moned and  the  order  given  for  the  mid-day  meal. 
"  Five  plates,  Louis,  and  have  the  whitest  table 
linen  in  the  house,  please !" 

After  the  introductions  Oswald  again  ad- 
mired the  girl  he  had  seen  the  previous  night. 
She  had  accompanied  the  fraternal  pair  much 
against  the  wish  of  her  guardian  to  a  ball  in  the 
Quarter  and  she  had  not,  she  said,  found  it 
wonderfully  diverting.  The  color  of  her  eyes 
was  hazel  —  they  were  wide  with  golden  flecks 
in  them,  the  same  curious  gold  as  her  hair  — 
and  her  little  ears  and  nose  with  its  tiny  nos- 
trils, that  became  inflated  when  she  was  inter- 
ested, held  the  gaze  of  the  young  man.  Under 
his  dyed  eyebrows  Count  Van  Zorn  regarded 
the  company.  It  was  not  quite  to  his  liking, 
the  Hollin  brothers  soon  discovered,  so  they 
182 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

engaged  him  in  conversation  and  paid  him  ex- 
aggerated compliments.  His  bird-like  profile, 
with  the  dull,  prominent  eyes,  moved  slowly 
from  one  brother  to  the  other. 

" Who's  your  friend?"  he  finally  asked.  He 
was  told  all  sorts  of  impossible  things;  Invern 
was  the  coming  composer;  he  had  not  arrived 
yet,  but  — !  The  Count  grunted.  He  had 
heard  this  blague  before.  In  Paris  all  your 
artistic  friends  are  just  about  to,  but  never  do, 
arrive.  Miss  Tilney  spoke  to  Invern. 

"It  is  charming  to  think  of  an  American  giv- 
ing up  his  great  country  for  the  sake  of  music  — 
preferring  notes  to  gold."  He  made  a  gesture 
of  disapproval. 

"Ah,  don't  play  the  modest  genius,"  she  gayly 
cried.  "You  know,  I  am  very  sensitive  to 
genius.  I've  never  heard  your  music,  yet  I'm 
sure  you  are  doomed  to  greatness  —  or  sorrow." 
She  added  these  last  two  words  under  her 
breath.  Oswald  heard  them.  He  started  and 
looked  into  her  eyes,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
questioned  two  pools  of  light;  they  reflected  no 
sentiment,  nor  did  they  directly  return  his 
glance.  Across  the  table  the  Count  made  a 
motion  and  she  colored;  he  summoned  at  the 
same  time  the  attention  of  the  young  composer. 

"You  write  music,  do  you?"  he  asked  in  a 
grating  voice.  "I  am  a  composer  myself.  I 
studied  with  a  great  Russian  musician,  now 
dead.  I- 

"Tell  us  about  Sar  Merodack  Peladan,"  in- 

183 


BEDOUINS 

terrupted  the  vivacious  Willy;  "tell  us  if  you 
ever  witnessed  his  incantations."  Every  one 
but  the  Count  and  Invern  laughed.  The  girl 
rapidly  said  something  to  her  guardian.  It 
must  have  been  in  Russian.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  to-day,"  he  answered  in  French. 

"No  secrets!"  the  brothers  adjured.  At  last 
the  crowd  began  to  modulate  into  that  hazy 
amiable  humor  which  follows  a  copious  break- 
fast. As  they  drank  coffee  conversational 
themes  were  preluded,  few  developed;  the  ball 
of  dialogue  was  lightly  tossed  and  Oswald  no- 
ticed that  Miss  Tilney  could,  at  will,  be  Ameri- 
can, French,  German,  Russian,  and  English, 
and  again  Russian.  Like  a  many-colored  skein 
she  unwound  her  various  temperaments  accord- 
ing to  her  mood.  With  him  she  was  sombre; 
once  she  flashed  anger  at  the  Count  and  showed 
her  teeth;  for  the  two  Hollins  she  played  any 
tune  they  wished.  The  real  June  Tilney  — 
what  was  she?  Oswald  wondered.  But,  when 
he  fancied  himself  near  the  edge  of  a  revelation, 
his  mind  must  have  collided  with  her  guardian's 
—  Van  Zorn's  expression  was  repellent.  Invern 
greatly  disliked  him.  The  talk  drifted  to  art, 
thence  to  religion,  and  one  of  the  Hollins  jested 
about  the  Devil.  Count  Van  Zorn  fixed  him 
at  once. 

"No  one  must  mock  sacred  things  in  my 
presence,"  he  coldly  announced.  The  others 
were  startled. 

"M.  Van  Zorn!"  said  Miss  Tilney.  Oswald 
184 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

saw  her  hands  fluttering  in  nervous  excite- 
ment. 

"I  mean  it,"  was  the  firm  response  of  the 
Count.  "The  Devil  is  the  mainspring  of  our 
moral  system.  Mock  him  and  you  mock  God 
—  who  created  him.  Without  him  this  world 
would  be  all  light  without  shadow,  and  there 
would  be  no  art,  no  music  —  the  Devil  is  the 
greatest  of  all  musicians.  He  created  the  chro- 
matic scale  —  that's  why  Richard  Wagner  ad- 
mired the  Devil  in  music  —  what  is  Parsifal  but 
a  version  of  the  Black  Mass !  Ah !  it  is  easy  to 
see  that  Wagner  knew  Baudelaire  only  too  well 
in  Paris,  and  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries 
of  Satanism  by  that  poet  who  wrote  a  Litany 
to  Lucifer,  you  know,  with  its  diabolic  refrain !" 
These  words  were  fairly  pelted  upon  the  ear- 
drums of  his  listeners.  The  girl  held  her  peace, 
the  brothers  roared  at  the  joke,  but  Invern 
took  the  phrases  as  a  serious  insult.  He  arose 
and  bowed. 

"The  Count  sees  fit  to  insult  my  art  —  very 
well!  But  I  am  not  compelled  to  hear  any 
more."  Before  he  could  leave  June  plucked  at 
his  sleeve  and  tried  to  hold  him;  stranger  still 
was  the  behavior  of  the  old  man.  He  reached 
across  the  table,  his  hands  clasped  in  supplica- 
tion. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  he  panted,  "I  meant 
no  offense.  Pray  be  seated.  I  adore  your  art 
and  practise  it  daily.  I  am  a  devout  Wagnerian. 
I  was  but  repeating  the  wisdom  of  certain  an- 

185 


BEDOUINS 

cient  Fathers  of  the  Church  who  ascribed,  not 
without  cause,  the  origin  of  music  to  Satan. 
Do  not  be  annoyed.  Beg  of  him,  June,  not  to 
go."  Invern  fell  back  in  his  seat  bewildered 
by  this  brusque  cannonade.  The  Count  held 
up  this  ten  skinny  ringers. 

"These  claws,"  he  cried,  "are  worn  to  the 
bone  on  the  keyboard.  I  belong  to  an  antique 
generation,  for  I  mingle  music  and  magic. 
Credit  me  with  good  intentions.  Better  still, 
visit  me  soon  —  to-night  —  June,  we  go  nowhere 
to-night,  hein !  Perhaps  as  you  do  not  believe 
in  the  existence  of  the  Devil,  perhaps  music  — 
my  music  —  may " 

Oswald  received  a  shock,  for  a  small  foot  was 
placed  upon  his  and  pressed  down  with  such 
electric  vigor  that  he  almost  cried  aloud.  It 
told  him,  this  foot,  as  plainly  as  if  its  owner 
had  spoken:  "Say  no!  Say  no!"  Responding 
to  a  stronger  will  than  his  own,  he  did  not 
answer. 

"Ha,  you  fear  the  Devil!  But  I  assure  you 
the  Devil  is  a  gentleman.  I  have  met  him, 
conversed  with  him."  His  voice  filed  down  to 
a  brittle  whisper  and  to  the  acute  perception  of 
the  young  man  an  air  of  melancholy  enveloped 
the  speaker.  Oswald  hung  his  head,  wondering 
all  the  while.  Was  this  fanatic  really  in  his 
sane  senses?  And  the  girl  —  what  part  did  she 
play  in  such  a  life?  Her  voice  cut  sharply 
across  his  perplexity. 

"Dear  guardian,  stop  your  Devil  talk.  I'm 
sick  of  it.  You  spoil  our  fun.  Besides,  you 
186 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

know  the  Devil  is  not  a  gentleman  at  all  —  the 
Devil  is  a  woman."  Shocked  at  the  very  tone 
of  her  voice,  almost  as  harsh  and  guttural  as 
her  uncle's,  Oswald  intercepted  a  look  rapidly 
exchanged  between  the  Count  and  his  ward. 
The  blood  rushed  to  his  head  and  he  slowly 
balled  his  fists.  Then  he  arose: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  boys  expect  to  do 
to-night,  but  I'm  going  to  see  the  Devil  —  I 
mean  the  Count;  that  is,  if  he  does  not  with- 
draw his  invitation."  The  Rollins  looked  re- 
gretfully at  Oswald  and  Miss  Tilney.  She  had 
upset  the  salt  and  was  slowly  passing  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  over  its  gritty  surface,  apparently 
dreaming,  leagues  distant.  The  Count  was  al- 
most amiable. 

"Ah,  my  dear  June,  I  shall  at  last  have  an 
auditor  for  my  bad  Wagner  playing!  I  live, 
Monsieur  Invern,  around  the  corner  in  the  little 
Impasse  du  Maine,  off  the  Avenue.  We  are 
neighbors,  I  think,  and  perhaps  it  may  interest 
you  to  know  that  we,  June  and  myself,  inhabit 
the  old  atelier  of  Bastien  Lepage,  where  he 
painted  Sarah  Bernhardt,  where,  also,  unfortu- 
nate Marie  Bashkirtseff  was  often  wheeled  to 
see  the  dying  painter." 

"Oh !  oh !"  remonstrated  the  girl  in  a  toneless 
voice,  "first  Devil-worship,  and  now  studio  scan- 
dal. Fie !"  Her  high  spirits  had  vanished;  her 
face  was  ash-grey  as  she  bowed  to  Invern. 
After  shaking  hands  with  the  brothers,  Count 
Van  Zorn  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"Don't  forget — eleven  o'clock.    Impasse  du 


BEDOUINS 

Maine.  The  Devil  perhaps;  anyhow,  Wagner. 
And  the  Devil  is  a  gentleman."  He  tittered, 
baring  his  gums,  his  painted  eyebrows  high  on 
his  forehead. 

"The  Devil  is  a  woman/'  tremulously  insisted 
the  girl.  "Have  you  forgotten  Klingsor  and 
his  'Rose  of  Hell'?"  With  Van  Zorn  she  dis- 
appeared. 

II 

When  he  reached  his  room  Invern  sat  on  the 
bed.  These  new  people  puzzled  him.  He  had 
shaken  off  the  Hollin  brothers,  telling  them 
they  were  idiots  to  have  introduced  such  an  old 
lunatic  to  him. 

"But  we  thought  you  liked  occult  Johnnies !" 
had  been  their  doleful  answer;  and  then  Oswald 
bade  them  seek  the  old  Nick  himself,  but  leave 
him  to  his  own  thoughts;  many  had  clustered 
about  his  consciousness  during  that  afternoon; 
the  principal  one,  the  girl.  Who  was  she  ?  Withf 
all  the  boastings  of  the  brothers  that  Count 
Van  Zorn  was  welcome  in  distinguished  musical 
circles,  Oswald  made  up  his  mind  to  a  decided 
negative.  That  man  never  went  into  the  polite 
world  nowadays,  though  he  may  have  done  so 
years  before.  An  undefinable  atmosphere  of 
caducity  and  malodorous  gentility  clung  to  this 
disciple  of  music  and  the  arts  esoteric.  How 
came  it  then  that  June  Tilney,  so  mundane,  so 
charming,  so  youthfully  alert,  could  tolerate 
the  vulture?  What  a  vulture's  glance  suggest- 
188 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

ing  inexpressible  horrors  was  his  brief,  warning 
look!  Oswald  grew  dizzy.  "By  God!"  he 
groaned,  "no,  not  that!  But  surely  some  sort 
of  diabolic  business !" 

Why  not  go?  Nothing  but  boredom  could 
result  at  the  worst,  and  boredom  in  his  life  was 
rapidly  merging  into  a  contempt  for  existence, 
contempt  for  this  damnable  Parisian  morass. 
His  ambition  had  winged  away  years  before. 
Occasionally  at  dusk,  on  white  summer  nights, 
he  seemed  to  discern  a  flash  of  some  shining 
substance  aloft,  and  felt  his  eyes  fill,  while  in 
his  ears  he  heard  the  humming  of  a"  great  col- 
ored melody.  Then  he  would  make  marks  in 
his  note-book  and  the  next  day  forget  his  infre- 
quent visitor;  he  believed  in  old-fashioned  in- 
spiration, but  when  it  did  arrive  he  was  too 
indifferent  to  open  the  doors  of  his  heart. 

The  Devil?  Any  belief  but  the  dull,  cynical 
unfaith  of  his  existence,  any  conviction,  even  a 
wicked  one,  any  act  of  the  will,  rather  than  the 
motiveless,  stagnant  days  he  was  leading.  Why 
not  call  on  the  Count  ?  Why  not  see  June  Til- 
ney  again?  He  recalled  vaguely  the  freshness 
of  her  face,  of  her  presence.  Yes,  alert  was  the 
word,  alert,  as  if  she  were  guarding  herself 
against  an  enemy.  Ah !  hiding  a  secret.  That 
was  in  her  light  fencing,  feathery  raillery,  cold 
despondency,  half-smothered  anger,  fierce  out- 
burst, and,  at  the  close,  in  her  obstinate  reiter- 
ation. What  did  it  all  mean?  He  sat  on  his 
bed  and  wondered. 


BEDOUINS 

And  in  the  dim  light  of  early  evening  he  heard 
his  name  called,  once,  twice  —  with  the  memory 
of  June  Tilney's  warning  earlier  in  the  day 
pressing  thick  upon  his  spirit,  he  rushed  into 
the  hallway  from  whose  vacancy  came  no  re- 
sponse to  his  excited  challenge.  Yet  he  could 
have  sworn  to  the  voice,  a  soundless  voice  which 
had  said  to  him:  " Don't  go!  Don't  go!" 
Oswald  put  on  his  hat,  picked  up  his  walking- 
stick,  and  left  the  house.  .  .  . 


HI 

He  wandered  up  and  down  the  BouP  Mich' 
obsessed  by  his  ideas,  and  the  clocks  in  the  cafes 
were  pointing  to  five  minutes  of  eleven  when 
he  turned  from  the  Avenue  du  Maine  into  the 
little  street,  closed  at  one  end,  which  bears  the 
name  of  the  adjacent  avenue.  Invern  had  never 
been  before  in  this  Impasse  du  Maine,  though 
he  had  passed  it  daily  for  ten  years.  He  remem- 
bered it  as  a  place  where  painters  and  sculptors 
resided;  it  was  dark,  and  the  buildings  for  the 
most  part  were  dingy,  yet  his  impression,  as  he 
slowly  moved  along  the  lower  side  of  the  street, 
was  not  a  depressing  one.  He  reached  the 
number  given  him  as  the  bells  in  the  neighboring 
church  began  to  sound  the  hour.  He  had  not 
time  to  summon  the  concierge  when  a  hand  was 
laid  upon  his  arm;  a  woman,  wearing  a  hood, 
and  enveloped  in  a  long  cloak,  peered  at  him 
through  a  heavy  veil.  He  knew  that  it  was  June 
190 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

Tilney  and  his  heart  began  to  pump  up  the 
blood  into  his  temples.  She  stooped  as  if  en- 
deavoring to  hide  her  identity,  and  in  her  hand 
she  carried  a  little  cane. 

"Don't  go  in!"  she  adjured  the  young  man 
who,  astounded  by  this  apparition,  regarded  her 
with  open-mouthed  disquiet. 

"Don't  go  in  —  there !"  she  again  admonished 
him.  "It  means  peril  to  your  immortal  soul  if 
you  do.  I  caution  you  for  the  second  time." 

"But  how  can  it  harm  me?" 

"I  have  warned  you,"  she  answered  abruptly 
—  was  this  his  June  Tilney  of  the  bright  morn- 
ing airs?  —  "and  I  repeat:  it  is  my  wish  that 
you  do  not  visit  there  to-night."  Something  in 
her  tone  aroused  opposition. 

"Nevertheless,  Miss  Tilney,  I  mean  to  see 
the  Devil  to-night." 

"Then  go  see  her!  But  deny  her  if  you 
dare!"  She  vanished  in  a  doorway  across  the 
street.  .  .  . 

Shocked  as  was  Oswald,  he  stolidly  pulled  the 
bell  until  the  massive  doors  opened.  A  light  at 
the  end  of  a  large,  dim  court  showed  him  the 
staircase  of  the  atelier.  A  moment  later  he  had 
let  fall  a  grinning  bronze  knocker  in  the  image 
of  a  faun's  hoof,  and  he  had  hardly  time  to  ask 
himself  the  mystery  of  Miss  Tilney's  request, 
when  he  was  welcomed  by  Count  Van  Zorn. 

Nothing  could  have  been  pleasanter  than  the 
apartment  into  which  he  was  conducted.  The 
Count  apologized  for  the  absence  of  the  young 
191 


BEDOUINS 

lady  —  Miss  Tilney  was  a  slave  to  social  obliga- 
tions !  Invern  winced.  He  looked  about  while 
the  Count  busied  himself  with  carafe  and 
glasses.  Decidedly  an  ideal  home  for  a  modern 
wizard  of  culture.  Book-shelves  crowded  with 
superb  volumes,  pictures  of  the  Barbizon  school 
on  the  walls,  an  old-fashioned  grand  pianoforte, 
an  alcove  across  which  was  drawn  black  velvet 
drapery;  everything  signalized  the  retreat  of  a 
man  devoted  to  literature  and  the  arts.  There 
were  no  enchantments  lurking  in  the  corners. 
Then  his  glance  fell  upon  a  warmly  colored 
panel,  a  Monticelli,  of  luscious  hues  with  richly 
wrought  figures.  It  depicted  a  band  of  youths 
and  maidens  in  flowing  costumes,  strayed  revel- 
lers from  some  secret  rites,  but  full  of  life's  in- 
toxication; hard-by  stood  an  antique  temple,  at 
its  portals  a  wicked  smiling  garden  god.  And 
over  all  was  the  flush  of  a  setting  sun,  a  vivid 
stain  of  pomegranate.  .  .  .  The  desk  of  the 
piano  held  an  engraving.  Invern  approached, 
but  turned  away  his  head.  He  saw  that  it  was 
by  that  man  of  unholy  genius,  Felicien  Rops. 
The  Count  crossed  to  his  visitor  and  smilingly 
told  him  to  look  again. 

"My  Rops!  You  do  not  admire  this  Temp- 
tation of  St.  Anthony?  No?  Yet  how  differ- 
ent in  conception  from  the  conventional  com- 
bination of  the  vulgar  and  voluptuous.  Wag- 
ner's Parsifal  is  only  a  variation  on  this  eternal 
theme  of  the  Saint  tempted  by  the  Sinner.  The 
Woman  here  is  crucified  —  what  a  novel  idea !" 
192 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

Invern  was  ill  at  ease.  The  place  was  not 
what  it  seemed.  He  read  the  titles  of  several 
imposing  tomes:  the  Trait6  Methodique  de  Sci- 
ence Occulte,  by  Dr.  Papus;  Sar  Peladan's 
Amphitheatre  des  Sciences  Mortes,  and  Com- 
ment on  devient  mage;  Au  Seuil  du  Mystere  and 
Le  Serpent  de  la  Genese,  by  Stanislaus  de 
Guaita.  Eliphas  Levi,  Nicolas  Flamel,  Ernest 
Bosc,  Saint-Martin,  Jules  Bois,  Nehor,  Remy 
de  Gourmont's  Histoires  Magiques,  and  many 
other  mystics  were  represented.  Upon  the 
dados  were  stamped  winged  Assyrian  bulls,  the 
mystic  rose,  symbolic  figures  with  the  heads  of 
women  and  anonymous  beasts,  lion's  paws  ter- 
minating in  fish-tails  and  serpent  scales.  In- 
scriptions in  a  dead  language,  possibly  Chaldean, 
streamed  over  the  walls,  and  the  constellations 
were  painted  in  gold  upon  a  dark-blue  ceiling. 
Luini's  Sacrifice  to  Pan,  an  etching  of  the  picture 
in  the  Brera  at  Milan,  caught  his  eye  and  he 
wondered  why  its  obvious  Satanic  quality  had 
been  so  seldom  noted  by  diabolists.  A  cum- 
brous iron  lamp  of  ornate  Eastern  workman- 
ship, in  which  burned  a  wisp  of  green  flame, 
comprised  all  that  was  bizarre  in  this  apartment; 
otherwise,  the  broad  student's  table,  the  com- 
fortable chairs  and  couches,  did  not  differ  from 
hundreds  of  other  studios  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Seine. 

Count  Van  Zorn  coaxed  Invern  into  a  loung- 
ing chair  and  gave  him  a  glass  of  wine.  It  was 
Port,  of  a  quality  that  to  the  young  man's  pal- 
193 


BEDOUINS 

ate  tasted  like  velvet  fire.  He  was  soon  smok- 
ing a  strong  cigar  in  company  with  the  old  man, 
his  fears  quite  obliterated.  But  his  visitor  noted 
that  the  Count  was  engrossed.  As  he  sat,  his 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  pattern  of  the  polished 
parquet,  Van  Zorn  looked  like  a  man  planning 
some  grave  project,  perhaps  a  great  crime.  His 
head  was  hollowed  at  the  temples,  on  his  fore- 
head the  veins  were  puffy,  his  eyebrows,  black 
as  ink  in  the  morning,  were  now  interspersed 
with  whitish-gray  —  the  dye  had  worn  away. 
At  intervals  he  groaned  snatches  of  melody, 
and  once  Invern  heard  him  gabble  in  a  strange 
tongue. 

"And  the  music  and  the  magic!"  broke  in 
the  young  man,  weary  of  this  interval.  Slowly 
Van  Zorn  arose  and  stared  at  him  steadily  with 
his  bird-of-prey  eyes. 

"Have  you  ever  realized,"  he  finally  began 
in  sing-song  tones,  "what  an  instrument  for 
good  or  evil  is  the  art  you  profess  to  practise? 
Hear  me  out,"  he  continued,  as  the  composer 
made  a  motion  of  dissent;  "I  don't  refer  to  the 
facile  criticism  which  classifies  some  music  pro- 
fane, some  music  sacred.  The  weaklings  who 
are  hurt  by  sensual  operatic  music  would  be 
equally  hurt  by  a  book  or  a  picture;  I  refer  to 
the  music  that  is  a  bridge  between  here  and  — 
over  there,  over  there!"  His  voice  sank  as  he 
waved  his  lean  brown  fingers  toward  the  alcove. 
"In  the  days  of  old,  when  man  was  nearer  to 
nature,  nearer  to  the  gods,  music  was  the  key 
194 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

to  all  the  mysteries.  Pan  and  Syrinx  answered 
its  magic  summons.  A  lost  art,  lost  with  the 
vulgarization  of  the  other  beautiful  arts,  you 
say?  I  deny  it!"  He  drew  up  his  rickety 
figure  as  if  he  held  the  keys  of  a  conquered  city. 

"No!  I  repeat,  music  is  still  the  precious 
art  of  arts  and  across  its  poisonous  gulf  of  sound, 
on  the  other  side,  over  there"  —  again  he  pointed 
to  the  alcove,  with  its  sable  velvet  funeral  pall 
—  "the  gods  await  our  homage.  Wagner  —  a 
worshipper  at  the  diabolic  shrine  —  pictured  his 
faith  in  Parsifal.  He  is  his  own  Klingsor,  and 
the  music  he  made  for  the  evocation  of  Kundry 
came  straight  from  the  mouth  of  hell.  Ah !  how 
it  burns  the  senses !  How  it  bites  the  nerves' — 
'Gundryggia  there,  Kundry  here!'  Yes,  the 
gods  and  the  greatest  of  all  the  gods,  my  master. 
Music  is  the  unique  spell  that  brings  him  to 
his  worshippers  on  earth.  We  near  the  end  of 
things.  This  planet  has  lived  its  appointed 
years.  All  the  sins  —  save  the  supreme  one  — 
have  been  committed,  all  the  virtues  have 
bleached  in  vain  our  cowardly  souls.  Tell  me, 
young  man,  tell  me,"  he  grasped  Oswald  by  his 
wrist,  "do  you  long  for  a  sight  of  the  true  mas- 
ter ?  Through  the  gates  of  music  will  you  go 
with  me  to  my  heaven  where  dwells  the  Only 
One?" 

Invern  nodded.    He  was  more  curious  than 

afraid.    With  apish  agility  Van  Zorn  darted  to 

the  pianoforte   and  literally  threw  his  hands 

upon  its  keyboard.     A  shrill  dissonance  in  B 

195 


BEDOUINS 

minor  sounded;  like  the  lash  of  hail  in  his  face 
the  solitary  auditor  felt  the  stormy  magnetism 
of  the  playing.  He  had  sufficient  control  of  his 
critical  faculties  —  though  it  seemed  as  if  he 
were  launched  into  space  on  the  tail  of  some 
comet  —  to  realize  the  desperate  quality  of  the 
performance.  It  was  not  that  of  a  virtuoso; 
rather  the  travail  of  a  spirit  harshly  expressing 
itself  in  a  language  foreign  to  its  nature.  The 
symmetry  of  the  Wagner  structure  was  almost 
destroyed;  yet  between  the  bits  of  broken  bars 
and  splintered  tones  there  emerged  the  music  of 
some  one  else,  a  stranger,  newer  Wagner.  Was 
the  Horla  of  Wagner  buried  in  this  demoniacal 
prelude  to  the  second  act  of  Parsifal  struggling 
into  palpable  being!  Carried  before  the  ban- 
ners of  this  surging  army  of  tones,  Oswald 
clutched  his  couch  and  eagerly  listened  to  the 
evil  music  of  Kundry  and  Klingsor. 

He  saw  the  stony  laboratory  with  its  gloomy 
battlements,  from  which  the  necromancer  Kling- 
sor witnessed  Parsifal  defeat  the  emasculate 
squires.  He  saw  the  mystic  abyss  hidden  in 
the  haze  of  violet  vapor  whence,  obeying  the 
hoarse  summons  of  her  master,  Kundry  slowly 
emerged.  Her  scream,  the  symphonic  scream 
of  woman,  beast,  or  devil,  fell  upon  his  ears  as 
though  an  eternity  of  damned  souls  had  gnashed 
their  teeth.  And  the  echoes  of  her  laughter 
reverberated  through  the  porches  of  hell. 

Gundryggia  dort!  Kundry  hier!  The  suc- 
cubus,  or  she-devil,  demon,  Rose  of  Hell,  after 
196 


THE  SUPREME  SIN 

vainly  refusing  to  obey  the  demands  of  the 
harsh  magician,  sank  with  a  baffled  cry:  "Oh! 
Woe  is  me!"  The  vast  fabric  of  Klingsor's 
abode  shivered,  dissipated  into  nothingness. 
But  there  followed  no  shining  garden  filled  with 
strange  and  gorgeous  flowers,  shapes  of  delights, 
wooing  maidens  with  promises  of  unearthly  love 
on  their  lips.  Vainly  Oswald  awaited  that  scene 
of  tropical  splendor  with  its  dream-terraces, 
living  arabesques,  and  harmonious  commingle- 
ment  of  sky  and  mountain,  earth  and  fountain, 
the  fair  mirage  painted  by  Klingsor's  dark  art. 
It  did  not  appear.  Instead  the  music  became 
no  longer  Wagner's,  became  no  longer  music. 
Van  Zorn  amid  brazen  thunders  wrenched  him- 
self from  the  keyboard,  and  prostrate  upon  the 
floor  fairly  kissed  its  surface,  mumbling  an  aw- 
ful litany.  The  room  was  murky,  though  violet 
hues  suffused  the  velvet  at  the  end.  Invern 
became  conscious  of  a  third  person,  where  he 
could  not  say.  An  icy  vibration  like  the  re- 
mote buzzing  of  monstrous  dynamos  apprised 
him  that  a  door  or  window  had  been  opened  in 
the  apartment  which  permitted  the  entrance  of 
-what!  His  heart  beat  in  the  same  rhythm 
with  the  mighty  dynamos  and  the  hoarse  chant- 
ing of  the  Count. 

"O  Exiled  Prince  on  whom  was  wrought  such  wrong  I 

Who,  conquered,  still  art  impious  and  strong  I" 
"O  Satan  have  mercy  on  us  !" 
"0  Satan,  patron  saint  of  evil !" 
"0  Satan  take  pity  on  our  misery!" 
197 


BEDOUINS 

"0  Prince  of  Suicide,  Maker  of  music  t" 

"0  Satan  have  pity  on  us  1" 

"O  Father  of  Pain,  King  of  Desolation,  true  Master  of 

the  House  of  Planets  I" 
"0  Satan  have  mercy  on  us  I" 
"0  Creator  of  black  despair  t" 
"O  Satan  take  pity  on  us  I" 

Indifferent  Christian  as  was  Invern,  his  knees 
knocked  at  this  sacrilegious  Baudelairian  invo- 
cation. The  violet  grew  in  intensity  as  the 
prayers  of  the  blasphemer  increased.  Slowly 
across  the  sombre  velvet  stretched  in  patibulary 
attitude  a  human  skeleton.  No  thorns  crowned 
its  grinning  skull;  instead  a  live  viper  wreathed 
about  its  bony  nest  and  turned  glittering  eyes 
upon  the  two  men.  Van  Zorn's  voice  became  a 
wail,  calling  down  imprecations  on  earth  to 
men  of  good-will.  He  cursed  life  and  praised 
death,  and  his  refrain  was  ever: 

"O  Satan? take  pity  on" our  misery  I" 

Oswald  no  longer  heard  him.  With  hysterical 
agitation  he  remarked  the  transformation  of  the 
adumbrated  phantom.  The  skeleton  had  begun 
to  carnify  —  its  frame  was  first  covered  with 
ivory-white  flesh,  and  then,  with  amazing  veloc- 
ity, a  woman  bourgeoned  before  his  eyes. 
Gone  the  skull,  gone  the  viper.  In  their  stead 
emerged  the  delicate  head  of  a  goddess  —  fil- 
leted by  Easter  lilies  —  with  smiling  lips,  en- 
ticing pose,  the  figure  of  a  delicious  nubility. 
Hazel  were  the  wide,  gold-flecked  eyes  that 
198 


THE   SUPREME   SIN 

shot  forthright  shafts  into  the  bosom  of  Oswald, 
and  charged  him  with  ineffable  longing.  The 
arms,  exquisite  in  proportion,  the  graciously 
modelled  torso,  pierced  him  with  an  epileptic 
ecstasy.  And  the  crazy  tones  of  Van  Zorn  as- 
sailed his  ears  as  if  from  a  great  distance: 

"0  Satan,  have  mercy  on  us  /" 

But  the  entranced  youth  cared  little  now  for 
the  diabolic  litany.  One  idea  seized  and  was 
burning  up  the  vital  spark  of  him.  As  the 
creature  waxed  in  beauty  he  knew  her  —  June 
Tilney !  Yes,  it  was  she  —  or  was  it  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  devil  in  the  Rops  picture  ?  —  who 
drew  him  toward  her  with  an  irresistible  caress 
in  her  eyes;  eyes  full  of  the  glamour  of  Gehenna, 
eyes  charged  with  sins  without  joy,  penitence 
without  hope.  Forgotten  her  warnings  before 
this  Kundry  of  Golgotha. 

"0  Satan  come  down  to  us"  rhythmically 
crooned  the  grovelling  old  man. 

This,  Satan?  This  radiant  maiden  with  the 
flowery  nimbus  and  beaming  eyes,  her  young 
breasts  carolling  a  magnificat  as  they  pointed 
to  the  zenith  —  Oswald  stumbled  to  the  foot 
of  the  gibbet,  in  his  ears  the  throbbing  of  death. 
Her  glance  of  cadent  glory  transfixed  him. 
Scorched  by  the  vision,  some  fibre  snapped  in 
his  brain  and  he  triumphantly  cried: 

"Thou  art  a  goddess,  not  the  Devil." 

A  freezing  blast  overturned  him,  the  saints  of 
199 


BEDOUINS 

hell  encircled  him,  as  he  heard  Van  Zorn's 
grinding  sobs: 

"Thou  hast  denied  the  Devil!  Thou  hast 
committed  the  Supreme  Sin !  Quickly  worship, 
else  be  banished  forever  from  the  only  Para- 
dise!" 

Sick,  his  lips  twisting  with  anguish,  Invern 
had  sufficient  will  to  close  his  eyes  and  despair- 
ingly groan:  "Son  of  Mary,  save  me!"  The 
apparition  crumbled.  After  a  panic  plunge  he 
found  himself  somehow  in  the  wintry  street,  his 
forehead  wet  with  fear,  his  nerves  tugging  in 
their  sheaths  like  wild  animals  leashed,  his 
heart  a  cinder  in  a  world  of  smoke.  .  .  . 

From  Asia  Minor,  years  later,  the  brothers 
received  a  letter  signed  by  Oswald  Invern.  In 
it  there  were  misty  hints  of  monastic  immure- 
ment, and  the  hopelessness  of  expiating  a  cer- 
tain strange  crime,  compared  with  which  the 
sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  is  but  a  youthful 
peccadillo.  The  Hollin  boys  giggled  in  unison. 

"What  joy!"  they  exclaimed,  "to  have  in- 
vented the  Supreme  Sin!" 


200 


II 

BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

WITH  the  vision  of  an  antique  marble  facade 
lingering  in  his  memory  he  slowly  walked  up 
the  Avenue,  only  stopping  at  Fiftieth  Street 
to  turn  and  as  leisurely  retrace  his  route.  Vin- 
cent Serle  was  in  the  middle  of  his  vigorous  life, 
but  this  day,  an  early  one  in  April,  his  forces 
seemed  arrested;  like  the  curling  wave  which 
crests  before  its  ultimate  recoil  and  crumble. 
He  attributed  his  mood  to  the  weather.  It  was 
not  precisely  spring-fever,  but  a  general  slacken- 
ing of  physical  fibre.  He  felt  almost  immoral: 
he  desired  respite  from  toil;  he  longed  for  some 
place  where  his  eyes  would  not  encounter 
palette  or  print;  and,  a  versatile  man  of  uncer- 
tain purpose,  he  longed  to  write  a  novel,  chiefly 
about  himself. 

The  clock  on  the  church-tower  told  him  that 
he  was  farther  down-town  than  he  had  planned. 
He  had  mechanically  spoken  to  passing  ac- 
quaintances. He  had  saluted  Mrs.  Larce,  over 
whose  portrait  he  was  laboring,  with  a  vacant 
regard  and  flamboyant  hat.  Then  he  emerged 
from  his  engulfing  spleen  and  hastily  ascended 
Delmonico's  steps.  It  was  his  day  of  disap- 
pointments. All  the  windows  in  the  cafe  were 
201 


BEDOUINS 

occupied;  nothing  remained  except  a  large  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  decidedly  an  unpleas- 
ant spot,  with  people  passing  and  repassing. 
He  hesitated  and  would  have  gone  away  when 
he  remembered  that  this  hour  always  saw  a 
mob  of  hungry  folk  at  any  establishment.  And 
Benedict,  his  favorite  waiter,  whispered  to  him 
that  he  would  assiduously  attend  to  monsieur's 
wants.  The  bored  painter  sank  heavily  into  his 
chair. 

The  meal  was  not  an  enlivening  one.  Like 
most  artists  educated  in  Paris,  Vincent  never 
took  anything  save  coffee  and  rolls  before  one 
o'clock.  He  was  not  an  early  riser;  he  deplored 
morning  work,  being  lazy  and  indifferent;  but 
he  soon  discovered  that  if  he  were  to  keep  pace 
with  the  desperate  pace  of  New  York  artistic 
life  he  dared  not  waste  the  first  half  of  the  day. 
Mrs.  Larce,  for  example,  insisted  upon  a  ten- 
o'clock  sitting.  At  that  precise  hour  he  wished 
himself  a  writer  with  liberty  to  work  at  mid- 
night; then  he  might  indulge  in  more  tobacco, 
dreams,  and  later  uprisings.  In  the  meantime 
he  was  munching  his  fish  without  noting  its 
flavor,  a  fact  that  Benedict  witnessed  with  dis- 
appointed eyes. 

He  had  achieved  coffee  and  cognac  and  was 
about  to  light  a  black  cigar  when  a  man  hurried 
in,  and,  after  gazing  at  the  coveted  window- 
tables,  sat  himself  opposite  Serle  with  a  short 
nod,  though  hardly  looking  at  him.  The  match 
burned  Serle's  fingers  and  he  struck  a  fresh 
202 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

one.  Instinctively  he  stood  up,  searching  the 
room  for  another  place.  The  garc,on  asked  if 
he  desired  his  account.  Vincent  shook  his 
head  and  fumingly  demanded  a  newspaper; 
behind  it  he  swallowed  his  brandy  and  puffed 
his  cigar.  The  fine  print  melted  into  a  blurred 
mass  before  his  eyes  and  his  hands  trembled. 
He  could  feel  the  beating  of  blood  at  his  wrists 
and  temple.  He  did  not  peep  over  the  paper 
rampart  because  of  his  discomposed  features. 

"Damn  him!"  he  thought,  "I  wonder  if  he 
knows  me  yet?" 

The  newcomer  calmly  ate  his  omelette  with 
the  air  of  a  man  intent  upon  some  problem.  He 
was  not  so  tall,  so  dark  as  Serle,  but  older, 
wirier  and  of  a  type  familiar  to  Fifth  Avenue 
after  four  o'clock  on  fine  afternoons:  —  a  law- 
yer, broker,  an  insurance  officer,  but  never  an 
artist.  He  did  not  glance  at  his  table  com- 
panion until  the  other  had  folded  his  newspaper, 
and  then  without  a  gleam  of  recognition. 

"He  doesn't  know  me,"  reflected  Serle;  "so 
much  the  better,  I'll  not  go  away.  I'll  watch 
him.  It  will  be  interesting." 

He  sardonically  hoped  that  the  absorbed  man 
would  choke  as  he  swallowed  his  chop.  Then 
he  smiled  at  his  vindictive  temper,  smiled  bit- 
terly because  of  his  childishness  —  after  all  the 
fellow  was  not  to  blame;  he  had  been  a  mere 
accomplice  of  a  stronger,  a  more  unprincipled 
will.  Yet,  slowly  studying  the  face,  he  could 
not  call  it  a  foolish  one.  Its  owner  showed  by 
203 


BEDOUINS 

his  concentrated  pose,  the  stern  expression  of 
his  mask,  that  he  was  not  a  weakling. 

"But,"  mused  the  painter,  "I've  seen  men 
with  jaws  as  if  modelled  in  granite,  eyes  that 
imperiously  reminded  you  that  they  were  your 
master,  men  whose  bearing  recalled  that  of  a 
triumphant  gladiator;  well,  these  same  indi- 
viduals, artists,  despots,  brutes,  bankers,  were 
like  whipped  dogs  in  the  presence  of  some 
woman.  No.  Hector  Marden's  outward  sem- 
blance is  not  an  indication  of  the  real  man. 
We  are  all  consummate  actors  in  our  daily 
lives,  none  more  so  than  those  who  have  much 
to  conceal." 

Hector  Harden  —  and  had  he  not  much  to 
conceal  —  the  beast!  Vincent's  clinched  fists 
were  drumming  on  the  table.  "  Come,"  he  pon- 
dered, "I'll  have  to  cease  this  baby  game  or  I'll 
end  by  making  a  scene  and  consequently  an 
ass  of  myself."  He  stared  at  Benedict  just  as 
Marden  raised  his  finger.  The  waiter  hurried 
to  the  table  and  presented  his  memoranda  to 
the  men.  Serle  frowned.  He  was  in  a  nasty 
humor. 

"What's  this,  Benedict?"  He  tendered  the 
embarrassed  gargon  his  slip  of  paper. 

"Pardon,  a  thousand  times  pardon,  monsieur ! 
I  made  a  mistake."  Marden  looked  up  smiling. 

"I  fear  I  have  the  bill  intended  for  you,"  he 
said,  in  a  conciliating  tone. 

"It's  nothing,"  murmured  Serle.  Both  men 
bowed.  The  accounts  were  soon  settled  and 
204 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

Benedict  nervously  retreated  to  the  background. 
But  neither  one  stirred.  Vincent,  without  paus- 
ing to  analyze  his  action,  offered  Marden  the 
newspaper.  It  was  politely  refused.  Possibly 
because  of  the  mellowness  of  the  moment,  or 
the  ample  repose  that  follows  luncheon,  Marden 
was  not  averse  from  entering  into  conversation, 
one  of  hazy  indirectness,  equally  suggestive  and 
non-committal.  He  made  a  few  commonplace 
remarks  about  the  unseasonable  heat,  the  de- 
plorable twilight  of  New  York's  tower-begirt 
highways,  and  soon,  against  the  prompting  of 
his  inner  spirit,  Serle  chimed  an  accordance. 
They  chatted.  Benedict  discreetly  moved 
nearer.  Presently  Serle  asked  his  neighbor  if 
he  would  have  a  cigar  or  perhaps  a  liqueur. 

"I  don't  mind,"  rejoined  Marden.  "The 
fact  is  I  feel  lazy  this  afternoon.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  meet  a  friend  here  —  a  client  of  mine 
-but  I  fancy  he  is  off  somewhere  wondering 
if  New  York  shall  ever  boast  a  decent  sky-line. 
He  is  an  architect  and  enthusiastic  over  French 
Gothic."  Serle's  ears  began  to  burn. 

"Architecture  in  New  York?  That's  a  taU 
joke.  Curiously  enough,  though,  this  very 
morning  I  was  admiring  the  new  library.  It 
has  a  stunning  facade.  If  I  were  Emperor  of 
America  I'd  raze  every  building  within  the 
radius  of  ten  blocks  so  as  to  give  the  building  a 
chance.  Only  think  of  the  Cathedral  without 
a  house  near  it!" 

"You  are  an  artist,  evidently,"  Marden  said 
205 


BEDOUINS 

without  the  faintest  trace  of  curiosity  in  his 
voice.  Serle  nodded.  Benedict  with  clasped 
hands  hinted  that  the  two  gentlemen  might 
prefer  a  window.  There  were  empty  tables  upon 
which  the  sun  no  longer  shone,  since  the  for- 
midable walls  across  the  street  blocked  its  rays. 
The  painter  shuddered.  They  would  surely  be 
seen  by  impertinent  passers-by.  He  sent  the 
man  away,  sharply  adding  that  he  would  be 
called  when  needed.  As  for  Marden,  he  was 
languidly  drifting  on  the  current  of  his  fancy. 
Was  it  pleasant  or  unpleasant?  The  watcher 
could  not  decide.  But  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  draw  Marden  up  to  the 
danger-line,  and  if  discovered,  if  discovered? 
He  would  at  least  tell  him  what  he  thought  of 
the  mean  scoundrel  who  had 

"I've  noticed/'  Marden  broke  in  on  Serle's 
ugly  revery,  "that  painters  seem  to  have  lots 
of  time  on  their  hands.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
You  have  quite  as  much  reason  for  advancing 
a  similar  remark  about  a  professional  man. 
Here  I  am  lounging  as  if  I  had  no  office  or  desk 
loaded  with  unanswered  correspondence.  But  I 
assure  you  I  don't  often  dissipate  this  way,  and 
I  take  it  you  are  of  the  same  opinion  regarding 
yourself."  He  paused. 

"You  spoke  of  painters  loafing.  What  made 
you  single  out  that  particular  profession?  I 
believe  it  may  be  called  a  profession,"  Vincent 
laughed. 

"Oh!    You  said  you  were  a  painter " 

206 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

"Yes,  but  you  were  not  thinking  of  me,  I'll 
wager.  You've  only  seen  me  half  an  hour." 

"You're  right;  I  was  not  thinking  of  painters, 
or  of  you  in  general,  but  of  a  particular  case 
that  came  under  my  personal  observation." 

"Yes,  yes,"  eagerly  responded  Serle,  as  he 
mentally  abused  the  lawyer  for  his  measured, 
pedantic  delivery.  "Your  story  interests." 

Marden  glanced  at  the  other's  flaming  cheeks 
and  replied,  rather  abruptly: 

"But  you  haven't  heard  it  yet.  However,  it's 
not  much  of  a  yarn.  It  happened  —  several 
years  ago.  A  lady,  a  client,  came  to  me  for 
advice.  She  was  married,  married,  I  say,  to 
an  artist,  a  painter  —  a  big,  good-for-nothing 
fellow,  who  was  lazy,  who  drank,  ran  after  his 
models  and  spent  her  money."  Marden  was 
interrupted. 

"Excuse  me,  you  said  the  lady  was  rich?" 

"Did  I?" 

"Certainly,  spent  her  money  was  your  last 
phrase." 

"Oh!  — Well,  perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  said 
her  money.  She  had  no  money.  I  meant  that 
her  husband  had  money  and  didn't  spend  it  on 
her.  A  mere  slip  of  the  tongue." 

"Good.  I'm  a  regular  cross-examiner,  you 
see." 

"True.  You  might  prove  a  difficult  witness 
in  the  chair.  My  friend — my  client,  informed 
me  that  her  husband  was  so  lazy  that  he  re- 
mained in  bed  until  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the 
207 


BEDOUINS 

afternoon;  then  he  would  slowly  dress  and 
saunter  for  a  walk,  and  often  she  did  not  see 
him  until  the  next  morning." 

"How  did  he  make  a  living?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  painted  a  portrait  or  two 
and  managed  to  get  on." 

"A  portrait  or  two?  That  would  hardly  pay 
household  expenses  —  that  is,  unless  your  friend 
—  I  mean  your  client's  husband,  was  a  Sargent 
or  a  Boldini.  Then  they  could  have  struggled 
along  at  the  rate  of  one  portrait  every  year." 
Serle  laughed  so  harshly  that  Harden  looked  at 
him  wonderingly. 

"I  see  you  are  acquainted  with  the  artistic 
temperament,  as  they  call  it  in  the  newspapers," 
observed  the  lawyer. 

"Not  as  they  call  it,  but  as  it  is.  My 
dear  sir,  an  artist  is  not  built  to  put  in  a  ton 
of  coal  every  day.  A  man  whose  brain  is 
delicately  adjusted,  whose  whole  soul  is  in  his 
eyes- 

"When  he  sees  a  pretty  girl?"  The  sly  tone 
of  Marden  angered  the  painter. 

"No,  hang  it!  For  a  painter  there  are  no 
pretty,  no  ugly  girls;  no  pretty,  no  ugly  land- 
scapes; no  agreeable,  no  disagreeable  subjects. 
Only  a  surface  to  be  transferred  to  canvas,  to 
be  truthfully  rendered.  And  that's  what  busi- 
ness men,  with  their  lack  of  imagination,  will 
never  understand."  He  spoke  hotly. 

"I  confess  I  have  a  lack  of  imagination  when 
it  comes  to  an  appreciation  of  the  artistic  tem- 
208 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

perament."  Harden  said  this  so  slyly  that 
Serle  at  once  begged  his  pardon. 

"After  all,  we  are  not  at  Dehnonico's  just  to 
thrash  out  a  stale  question.  Pray  go  on  —  your 
story  interests  me  strangely." 

"It's  not  very  interesting  —  that's  all  I  know. 
The  woman  left  the  man " 

"For  another?"  calmly  interjected  Vincent. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all  — that  is,  not  at  the 
time."  The  lawyer  fumbled  his  glass,  his  ex- 
pression overcast. 

"You  know  what  strange  creatures  women 
are.  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  persuading 
my  client  to  make  up  her  mind.  She  suffered, 
yet  she  cared  for  the  fellow " 

Serle  impatiently  asked:  "But  you  haven't 
revealed  what  the  fellow  did  to  her  —  what  his 
special  crime!  Didn't  he  give  her  a  good 
home?" 

"My  dear  sir !  A  good  home  when  he  turned 
night  into  day !  A  good  home  when  he  seldom 
put  brush  to  canvas !  A  good  home  —  why,  I 
thought  I  told  you  he  was  too  friendly  with  his 
models." 

"His  models!  A  portraitist !  Do  you  mean 
his  sitters?  Did  he  flirt  with  them?  If  he  did 
so  he  was  a  fool,  for  he  was  killing  the  goose 
that  laid  the  —  No,  I'll  not  be  so  impolite.  I 
meant  to  say  he  would  endanger  his  reputation." 
Marden  dryly  laughed. 

"  That's  good  —  reputation  is  good.  My  client 
informed  me,  and  she  is  a  serious  woman,  that 
209 


BEDOUINS 

she  never  met  an  artist  who  could  be  relied  upon. 
And  she  knew,  for  she  was  one  herself. " 

Serle's  jaw  dropped.  "How  odd !  What  did 
she  do?" 

"Oh,  she  painted  a  little,  just  enough  to  make 
pin-money  and  to  annoy  her  husband.  You  see, 
it  was  this  way.  She  did  not  care  to  take  money 
from  a  man  she  loathed." 

"Loathed!" 

"  I  said  —  loathed.  She  literally  loathed  him. 
She  told  me  so." 

"Why  didn't  she  leave  him  sooner?  Besides, 
a  few  moments  ago  you  said  he  never  offered 
her  money.  Now,  she  loathed  him  so  she 
wouldn't  take  any " 

"Ah!  That's  not  in  my  fable,"  tartly  an- 
swered Harden.  Again  he  turned  gloomy  and 
tapped  nervously  on  the  table. 

The  afternoon  waned.  A  soft  light  slipped 
through  the  high  curtained  windows  and  modu- 
lated into  glancing  semitones  over  the  richly 
decorated  apartment.  Several  men  entered  — 
the  vanguard  of  the  five-o'clock  brigade  of  ab- 
sintheurs.  Serle  became  nervous.  What  if !  — 
But  he  determined  to  take  the  chance  of  seeing 
some  imbecile  who  might  salute  him  by  name. 
He  leaned  forward  on  his  folded  arms  and  asked 
with  a  show  of  concern: 

"And  what  became  of  your  charming  client?" 

"My  charming —  Oh!  Why,  she  married 
and  settled  down." 

"At  last!    Is  she  happy?" 

210 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

"How  can  I  tell?"  The  response  betrayed 
an  irritable  nuance. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  put  the  question  so  bluntly. 
The  reason  I  ask  is  a  simple  one.  I  studied  a 
case  not  unlike  the  one  you  narrated.  It  is  just 
as  sordid  and  commonplace.  My  artist,  also  a 
painter,  had  married  a  pupil  whom  he  taught  — 
as  much  as  she  could  absorb.  She  hadn't  much 
talent;  it  was  the  sort  you  see  expressed  on  fans 
and  bon-bon  boxes. 

"  She  might  have  been  all  right  if  her  admiring 
friends  had  not  told  her  that  she  had  more  talent 
than  her  husband  —  really,  there  wasn't  enough 
between  them  both  to  set  the  river  on  fire. 
However,  she  devilled  him  so  effectually  that 
he  took  a  separate  studio  to  get  away  from  the 
sound  of  her  voice  and  from  their  home.  Like 
your  painter,  he  turned  day  into  night,  but  with 
a  difference;  he  made  illustrations  for  the  maga- 
zines and  newspapers,  painted  cheap  portraits, 
demeaned  himself  generally  to  get  money 
enough  to  run  the  house.  She  enjoyed  herself, 
flirted,  went  into  society  of  some  sort,  a  cheap 
compromise  between  Bohemia  and  the  frayed 
fringe  of  Fifth  Avenue  —  you  may  not  know  the 
variety,  as  you  are  a  member  of  another  profes- 
sion. It  is  diverting,  this  society,  because  it  is 
as  false  as  the  hair  on  the  head  of  its  women. 
The  bohemian  side  largely  consists  of  bad  claret, 
worse  music,  and  ghastly  studio  teas;  its  fash- 
ionable side,  poverty-stricken  grand  ladies  with 
tarnished  reputations.  I've  seen  it  all.  One  of 
211 


BEDOUINS 

the  sights  of  greater  Gotham  is  this  glittering 
set  of  fakirs.  The  woman  I  speak  of  was  whirled 
off  her  feet  by  the  cheap  show.  She  was  a  fresh, 
pretty  little  girl  when  she  came  here  from  a 
small  town  up  State.  Her  friends  were  ambi- 
tious fools,  she  was  green  —  and  very  vain.  So 
vain!  Then  her  name  crept  into  the  newspa- 
pers; it's  hard  work  keeping  out  of  them  now- 
adays. She  was  called  'The  beautiful  Mrs. 
Somebody,  who  painted  exquisite  miniatures  of 
socially  prominent  ladies';  you  know  the  style 
of  such  rot?  The  horror  of  it!  Rather  you 
don't,  for  you  have  never  lived  in  this  particular 
set " 

"But,  I  do,  I  do!"  cried  Harden.  "My 
client  told  me  something  of  it."  Serle  sneered. 

"She  didn't  tell  you  much  or  you  might  have 
asked  her  whether  there  wasn't  another  side  to 
her  case.  The  girl  I  am  talking  about  went  the 
pace;  and,  as  an  old  philosopher  on  the  police 
force  remarks:  'When  a  woman  is  heading  for 
hell,  don't  try  to  stop  her;  it's  a  waste  of  time/ 
Her  husband  saw  it  and  he  did  try.  Her  friends 
knew  it  and  helped  her  on  her  merry  way.  The 
painter  even  sent  her  to  Europe,  and  with  her 
some  of  her  friends  to  keep  her  company,  if 
they  couldn't  keep  her  straight.  Well  —  Paris  is 
worse  than  poison  for  such  women.  She  was 
soon  back  in  New  York,  leaving  behind  her  a 
sweet  record,  many  unpaid  bills  and  with  a  half  a 
dozen  fools,  picked  up,  God  knows  where,  at  her 
heels.  And  then  he  went  away.  It  was  too 

212 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

much.  However,  being  a  woman,  she  won  all 
the  sympathy.  Her  story  was  believed,  not  his, 
and- 

"  Singular  coincidence.  But  wasn't  the  hus- 
band to  blame  a  little?" 

"Oh!"  said  Vincent.  "Men  are  always  to 
blame." 

"Could  he  have  forgiven  her?" 

"He  did  better,  he  forgot  her." 

"Did  she  go  to  the  bad?"  sympathetically 
inquired  Harden. 

"On  the  contrary.  She  married  well  —  a  pro- 
fessional man  of  some  sort."  He  smiled  with 
good-humored  malice. 

"And  is  she  —  is  she  —  right  now?  I  mean 
is  she  happy?" 

"She  will  be  happy  always,  a  selfish  little  soul. 
You  mean  is  her  present  husband  happy  ?  " 

"Yes."  Marden  leaned  back  nonchalantly 
and  his  hands,  lean-fingered,  traversed  the  cor- 
ner of  the  table.  To  Serle  the  air  became  as 
dense  as  a  vapor-bath.  He  continued,  merci- 
lessly: 

"Of  course  he  is  happy  —  her  husband.  Why 
shouldn't  he  be?  He  doesn't  know." 

"Doesn't  know  what?  Really,  you  set  me  on 
edge,"  exclaimed  Marden.  He  tried  to  smile, 
but  his  upper  lip  lifted,  displaying  white  eye- 
teeth.  Vincent  lighted  a  fresh  cigar.  His  arm 
did  not  tremble  now.  Then,  swallowing  the  last 
of  his  cold  coffee,  he  continued: 

"Her  husband  doesn't  dream  the  truth  of  her 
213 


BEDOUINS 

life  in  New  York  and  Paris.  She  is,  as  I  said, 
very  pretty  and  can  pull  the  wool  over  any  man's 
eyes.  She  is  so  interesting,  so  poetic,  you  know. 
She  plays  that  little  trick  of  the  abused  wife 
with  the  artistic  temperament;  plays  it  off  on 
all  the  men  she  meets,  on  my  friends " 

"Your  friends?" 

"My  friends  know  her  as  a  capricious  vixen, 
masquerading  as  a  delicate  oversoul.  I  knew 
her  once."  (Serle  was  cool;  he  had  himself  well 
in  hand.)  "And  she  always  wins  and  still  plays 
the  game.  At  this  moment  she  is  probably  fool- 
ing her  husband,  taking  tea  with  some  soft- 
head. She  gets  her  wealthy  male  friends " 

"How  does  she  get  them?  Tell  me."  Mar- 
den's  voice  was  subdued.  "Does  she  say  to 
her  husband  that  she  must  secure  orders  for 
miniatures  by  dining  with  rich  fellows  ?  Doesn't 
she " 

"  Really,  my  dear  sir,  I  don't  know  everything 
about  this  clever  lady's  method.  You  seem 
quite  taken  with  her  story.  It  is,  I  pride  my- 
self, more  exciting  than  your  narrative  of  the 
artistic  temperament."  Vincent's  intonations 
were  markedly  sarcastic.  The  older  man's  face 
was  afire. 

"Who  the  devil " 

Benedict  came  to  the  table  and  placatingly 
asked: 

"Is  this  Mr.  Marden?" 

"I'm  Mr.  Marden.    What  do  you  want?" 

"Madame,  your  wife,  has  just  arrived.  She 
214 


BROTHERS-IN-LAW 

is  in  the  large  salon  with  a  gentleman,  and  she 
desires  me  to  ask  you  to  join  her."  The  men 
arose. 

"It  was  quite  a  pleasant  afternoon,  was  it 
not?"  In  his  most  charming  manner  Serle 
put  out  his  hand  and  Marden  took  it,  grudgingly, 
his  shrewd  face  surly,  his  little  eyes  suspiciously 
fastened  on  the  smiling  countenance  of  his  com- 
panion. Then  he  followed  the  obsequious  gar- 
£on,  and  Serle  went  into  the  street,  first  looking 
after  the  pair.  He  discerned  Marden  at  a  table 
on  the  Fifth  Avenue  side;  with  him  was  a  fresh- 
colored,  graceful  woman,  in  elaborate  afternoon 
toilette;  a  big,  overdressed  man  sat  beside  her. 

Once  in  a  taxi  Vincent  Serle  gave  the  order 
to  cross  over  to  Madison  Avenue. 

"I'll  not  risk  passing  that  window,"  he  mut- 
tered. "It  was  a  mean  trick,  but  it  served  the 
meddling  fool  right.  I  wonder  which  one  of  us 
lied  the  more?  And  I  never  saw  Amy  look  so 
bewitching!" 


215 


Ill 

GRINDSTONES 

"Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

By  each  let  this  be  heard; 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss, 
The  brave  man  with  a  sword." 

—Oscar  Wilde. 

IT  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening 
when  the  young  ladies  entered  the  fashionable 
boarding-house  drawing-room.  Madame  Re- 
camier's,  on  the  upper  West  Side,  was  large 
enough  to  defy  the  heated  spell;  yet  the  group 
seemed  languid  on  this  tepid  night  in  June, 
fluttered  fans  and  were  not  disposed  to  chatter. 
No  one  had  called.  Miss  Anstruther,  a  brilliant 
brunette,  cried  out: 

"  Oh,  my  kingdom  for  a  man ! "  Mild  laughter 
was  heard.  The  girl  went  to  the  grand  piano  and 
said:  "What  shall  it  be?" 

"No  Chopin,"  exclaimed  Miss  Beeslay. 

"Do  play  a  Chopin  nocturne.  Why,  it's  the 
very  night  for  nocturnes.  There's  thunder  in 
the  air,"  protested  Miss  Pickett. 

"Listen  to  Anne.  Isn't  she  poetic — " 
By  this  time  the  young  women  were  quite 
animated.  Tea  served,  Madame  Recamier  sent 
216 


GRINDSTONES 

down  word  by  the  black  page  to  ask  Miss  An- 
struther  for  a  little  music.  The  dark  girl 
pouted,  yawned,  and  finally  began  the  noc- 
turne in  F  minor.  Before  she  had  played  two 
bars  the  door-bell  rang,  and  its  echoes  were  not 
stilled  before  a  silvery  gong  sounded  somewhere 
in  the  rear.  The  drawing-room  was  instantly 
deserted. 

Presently  the  page  brought  in  two  young 
men,  both  in  evening  dress. 

"We  should  like  to  see  Miss  Anstruther  and 
Miss  Pickett,"  said  the  delicate-looking  fellow. 
"Say  that  Mr.  Harold  and  a  friend  are  here." 
The  page  departed.  Mr.  Harold  and  his  com- 
panion paced  the  long  apartment  in  a  curious 
mood. 

"Tea!  They  don't  drink  tea,  do  they?" 
asked  the  other  man,  a  tall  blond,  who  wore  his 
hair  like  a  pianist. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all  we'll  get,  Alfred;  unless 
Madame  Recamier  comes  down-stairs  or  else 
is  magnetized  by  your  playing.  She  keeps  a 
mighty  particular  boarding-house." 

"For  God's  sake,  Ned,  don't  ask  me  to  touch  a 
piano.  I've  only  come  with  you  because  you've 
raved  about  this  dark  girl  and  her  playing. 
There  they  are!"  Two  came  in;  introductions 
followed,  and  the  conversation  soon  became 
lively. 

"We  drink  tea,"  said  Anne  Pickett,  "because 
Madame  Recamier  believes  it  is  good  for  the 
complexion." 

217 


BEDOUINS 

"You  have  a  hygiene  like  a  young  misses' 
school,  haven't  you?"  said  Ned,  while  Harold, 
fascinated  by  the  rather  gloomy  beauty  of  Miss 
Anstruther,  watched  closely  and  encouraged  her 
talk.  She  had  a  square  jaw;  her  cheek-bones 
were  prominent.  She  was  not  pretty.  The 
charm  of  her  face  —  it  was  more  compelling 
than  charming  —  lay  in  her  eyes  and  mouth. 
Brown,  with  a  hazel  nuance,  the  eyes  emitted 
a  light  like  a  cat's  in  the  dark.  Her  mouth  was 
a  contradiction  of  the  jaw.  The  lips  were  full 
and  indicated  a  rich,  generous  nature,  but  the 
mask  was  one  of  a  Madonna  —  a  Madonna  who 
had  forsaken  heaven  for  earth.  Harold  found 
her  extremely  interesting. 

"Of  course,  you  are  musical?"  he  asked. 

"Yes;  I  studied  at  Stuttgart,  and  have  re- 
gretted it  all  my  life.  I  can  never  get  rid  of  the 
technical  stiffness." 

"Play  for  me,"  he  begged.  But  playing  was 
not  to  the  girl's  disposition.  Sultry  was  the 
night,  and  a  few  faint  flashes  of  heat-lightning 
near  the  horizon  told  of  a  storm  to  come.  Anne 
Pickett  was  laughing  very  loudly  at  her  com- 
panion's remarks  and  did  not  appear  to  notice 
the  pair.  Several  times,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  long  drawing-room,  eyes  peeped  in,  and 
once  the  black  page  put  his  head  in  the  door 
and  coughed  discreetly. 

It  seemed  a  dull  hour  at  Madame  Recamier's. 

Suddenly  Harold  placed  his  hand  on  Miss 
Anstruther's  and  said:  "Come  to  the  piano," 
218 


GRINDSTONES 

and,  as  one  hypnotized,  she  went  with  him.  He 
lifted  the  fall-board,  put  back  the  lid,  glanced 
carelessly  at  the  maker's  name,  and  fixed  the 
seat  for  the  young  woman.  Anne  Pickett  was 
watching  him  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

" Who's  your  friend?  He  acts  like  a  piano 
man.  There  were  three  here  last  night." 

"H'sh!"  said  Ned,  as  the  pianist  struck  a 
firm  chord  in  C-sharp  minor  and  then  raced 
through  the  Fantaisie-Impromptu.  The  man 
beside  her  listened  and  watched  rather  cynically 
as  her  strong  fingers  unlaced  the  involved  fig- 
ures of  the  music.  That  he  knew  the  work  was 
evident.  When  she  had  finished  he  congratu- 
lated her  on  her  touch,  observing:  "What  a  pity 
you  don't  cultivate  your  rhythms!'7  She 
started. 

"You  are  a  musician,  then?"  Before  he 
could  answer,  the  page  came  in  and  whispered 
in  her  ear:  "Madame  Recamier  wants  to  know 
if  the  gentlemen  will  have  some  wine." 

Miss  Anstruther  blushed,  got  up  from  the 
piano  and  walked  toward  the  window.  Harold 
followed  her,  and  Miss  Pickett  called  out: 
"Ned,  we  can  have  some  champagne;  old 
Mumsey  says  so." 

When  Harold  reached  the  girl  she  was  lean- 
ing out  of  the  window  regarding  the  western 
sky.  Darkness  was  swallowing  up  the  summer 
stars:  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  for  she 
was  weeping  silently,  hopelessly. 

"How  can  you  stand  it?"  he  murmured,  and 
219 


BEDOUINS 

the  ring  in  his  voice  caused  the  girl  to  turn 
about  and  face  him,  her  eyes  blurred  but  full 
of  resentment. 

"Don't  pity  me  —  don't  pity  me;  whatever 
you  feel,  don't  pity  me,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
choked  voice. 

"My  dear  Miss  Anstruther,  let  me  under- 
stand you.  I  admire  you,  but  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  pity  you."  Harold  was  puzzled. 

"Anne,  he  doesn't  know;  Harold  doesn't 
know,"  cried  Miss  Anstruther,  and  Anne 
laughed,  when  a  sharp  flash  of  lightning  al- 
most caused  the  page  to  drop  the  tray  with  the 
bottles  and  glasses. 

It  grew  hot;  the  wine  was  nicely  iced,  so  the 
four  young  people  drank  and  were  greatly  re- 
freshed. Madame  Recamier  was  justly  proud 
of  her  cellar.  Anne  pledged  Ned,  and  Harold 
touched  glasses  with  Miss  Anstruther,  while  the 
first  thunder  boomed  in  the  windows,  and  the 
other  boarders  out  in  the  back  conservatory 
shivered  and  thirsted. 

Harold  went  to  the  piano.  He  felt  wrought 
up  in  a  singular  manner.  The  electricity  in  the 
atmosphere,  the  spell  of  the  dark  woman's  sad 
eyes,  her  harsh  reproof  and  her  undoubted 
musical  temperament  acted  on  him  like  a  whip- 
lash. He  called  the  page  and  rambled  over  the 
keyboard.  Miss  Anstruther  sat  near  the  pian- 
ist. Soon  the  vague  modulations  resolved  into 
a  definite  shape,  and  the  march  from  the  Fan- 
taisie  in  F  minor  was  heard.  It  took  form,  it 
220 


GRINDSTONES 

leaped  into  rhythmical  life,  and  when  the  rolling 
arpeggios  were  reached,  a  crash  over  the  house 
caused  Miss  Pickett  to  scream,  and  then  the 
page  entered  with  a  tray. 

Harold  stopped  playing.  Miss  Anstruther, 
her  low,  broad  brow  dark  with  resentment,  said 
something  to  the  boy,  who  showed  his  gums  and 
grinned.  "It's  de  wine,  missy,"  he  said,  and 
went  out  on  ostentatious  tiptoe.  The  group  in 
the  conservatory  watched  the  comedy  in  the 
drawing-room  with  unrelaxed  interest,  though 
little  Miss  Belt  declared  the  thunder  made  her 
so  nervous  that  she  was  going  to  bed.  Madame 
Recamier  rang  the  gong  twice,  and  a  few  min- 
utes later  a  smell  of  cooking  mounted  from 
the  area  kitchen.  Harold  started  afresh.  The 
storm  without  modulated  clamorously  into  the 
distance,  and  orange-colored  lightning  played 
in  at  the  window  as  he  reached  the  big  theme 
of  the  bass.  It  was  that  wonderful  mel- 
ody in  F  minor  which  Beethoven  might  have 
been  proud  to  pen,  and  was  followed  by  the 
exquisite  group  of  double  notes,  so  fragrant,  so 
tender,  so  uplifting,  that  Anne  Pickett  forgot 
her  wine;  and  the  other  girl,  her  eyes  blazing, 
her  cheek-bones  etched  against  the  skin,  sat 
and  knotted  her  ringers  and  followed  with  dazed 
attention  the  dance  of  the  atoms  in  her  brain. 
She  saw  Harold  watching  her  as  she  went  to 
school;  Harold  peeping  in  at  the  lodge  of  her 
college;  Harold  waiting  to  waylay  her  when 
she  left  her  father's  house,  and  she  saw  Harold 
221 


BEDOUINS 

that  terrible  night !  He  had  reached  the  medi- 
tation in  B  and  her  pulses  slackened.  After 
the  crash  of  the  storm,  after  the  breathless  rush 
of  octaves,  Miss  Anstruther  felt  a  stillness  that 
did  not  come  often  into  her  life.  The  other 
pair  were  sitting  very  close,  and  the  storm  was 
growling  a  diminuendo  in  the  east.  Already  a 
pungent  and  refreshing  smell  of  earth  that  had 
been  rained  upon  floated  into  the  apartment, 
and  Harold,  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  was  rushing 
away  with  her  soul  on  the  broad  torrent  of 
Chopin's  magic  music.  She  was  enthralled,  she 
was  hurt;  her  heart  stuck  against  her  ribs  and 
it  pained  her  to  breathe.  When  the  last  harp- 
like  figure  had  flattened  her  to  the  very  wall, 
she  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Ho,  Margery,  wake  up;  your  wine's  getting 
warm !"  cried  lively  Anne  Pickett  as  she  sipped 
her  glass,  and  Ned  rang  the  bell  for  the  page. 
Harold  sat  self-absorbed,  his  hands  resting  on 
the  ivory  keys.  He  divined  that  he  had  won 
the  soul  of  the  woman  who  sat  near  him,  and 
he  wondered.  He  looked  at  her  face,  a  strong 
face,  in  repose  with  a  few  hard  lines  about 
the  eyes  and  mouth.  He  gazed  so  earnestly 
that  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  catching  his  re- 
gard, blushed  —  blushed  ever  so  lightly.  But 
he  saw  it  and  wondered  again.  More  wine 
came,  but  Miss  Anstruther  refused  and  so  did 
Harold.  By  this  time  the  other  pair  were  jolly. 
Ned  called  out: 

"Harold,  play  something  lively.  Wake  up 
222 


GRINDSTONES 

the  bones,  old  man!  Your  girl  isn't  getting 
gay."  Harold  looked  at  her,  and  she  walked 
slowly  toward  the  conservatory.  Miss  Pickett, 
crazy  Anne,  as  they  called  her,  went  to  the 
piano  and  dashed  into  a  lively  galop.  Ned 
drank  another  glass  of  wine  and  began  to  dance 
from  the  end  of  the  room  to  the  piano. 

"Come  on,  let's  have  a  good  racket!"  he 
yelled,  as  the  piano  rattled  off  in  rag-time  while 
Miss  Anstruther  and  Harold  sat  on  near  the 
conservatory.  The  whispering  increased  behind 
them,  but  the  girl  did  not  hear  it.  The  music 
unlocked  her  heart,  and  her  commonplace  sur- 
roundings faded.  If  she  had  but  met  a  man  like 
him  that  other  time!  She  realized  his  innate 
purity,  his  nobility  of  nature.  Little  wonder 
that  his  playing  aroused  her,  made  live  anew 
the  old  pantomime  of  her  life.  She  unconsciously 
placed  in  the  foreground  of  her  history  the  fig- 
ure of  the  man  beside  her,  yet  she  had  never 
before  seen  him.  It  was  wonderful,  this  spirit- 
ual rebirth.  Only  that  morning  she  told  the 
girls  at  breakfast  she  could  never  love  again  — 
she  hated  men  and  their  ways.  "They  are  ani- 
mals, the  best  of  them!"  and  Madame  Re- 
camier  laughed  the  loudest. 

Harold  left  her,  took  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  seeing  Miss  Pickett  light  a  cigarette,  asked 
permission  to  do  the  same. 

"Can't  I  bring  you  another  glass  of  wine?" 
Harold  tenderly  asked.  The  gang  of  girls  in 
the  conservatory  nudged  one  another  and  stared 
223 


BEDOUINS 

with  burning  eyes  at  Miss  Anstruther  through 
the  lattice.  She  gently  shook  her  head,  and 
again  he  saw  her  blush.  She  did  not  stir.  He 
began  the  luscious  nocturne  in  B  —  the  Tube- 
rose Nocturne,  and  Madame  Recamier's  gong 
sounded.  The  page  entered  and  said: 

"No  more  piano  playing  to-night.  Madame 
wants  to  sleep." 

Miss  Anstruther  started  so  angrily  that  there 
was  a  titter  behind  the  lattice.  But  she  did  not 
notice  it;  her  whole  soul  was  bent  on  watching 
Harold.  He  spoke  to  Ned,  and  Miss  Pickett's 
jarring  laugh  was  heard. 

Then  he  went  over  to  her,  and,  sitting  down 
beside  her,  leaned  and  touched  her  face  with 
his  finger.  The  girl  grew  white  and  she  felt  her 
heart  beat.  At  the  next  word,  the  old,  tired, 
cold  look  came  back,  and  she  faced  him  as  she 
had  first  received  him. 

Then  suddenly  the  laughter  behind  the  lat- 
tice grew  noisy.  Anne  Pickett  screamed  out: 

"Another  of  Margery's  dreams  shattered!" 

Ned  laughed  and  rang  for  more  wine. 

As  they  came  down  the  steps  the  next  morn- 
ing Harold  said  to  Ned: 

"My  boy,  there  are  worse  crimes  than  mur- 
dering a  woman." 

"Oh,  let's  get  a  cocktail,"  croaked  Ned. 


224 


IV 
VENUS  OR  VALKYR  ? 

PAUL  GODARD  found  the  ride  between  Nu- 
remberg and  Baireuth  discomforting.  The  hot 
July  breezes  that  blew  into  the  first-class  coupe 
of  the  train  were  almost  breath-arresting;  and 
Paul  had  left  Stuttgart  that  morning  in  a  savage 
mood.  The  slowness  of  the  railway  service  ir- 
ritated him,  the  faces  of  his  travelling  compan- 
ions irritated  him,  and  he  had  shocked  an  Eng- 
lishman by  remarking  early  in  the  afternoon: 

"If  the  old  engine  doesn't  run  any  faster 
than  this  we  had  better  get  out  and  walk,  or 
—  push." 

The  other  simply  peered  at  the  speaker  and 
then  resumed  Wolzogen's  book  on  Leading- 
Motives. 

Three  Roumanian  ladies  laughed  in  oily 
Eastern  accents.  They  understood  English, 
and  the  sight  of  a  human  being,  a  strong  young 
man,  in  a  passion  about  such  a  little  matter  as 
European  railroad  punctuality  struck  them  as 
ridiculous.  So  they  laughed  again  and  Paul 
finally  joined  in,  for  he  was  an  American. 

He  had  been  rude,  but  he  couldn't  help  it; 
besides,  it  looked  as  if  they  would  reach  Bai- 
225 


BEDOUINS 

reuth  too  late  for  the  opening  performance,  and 
his  was  the  laughter  of  despair. 

The  youthful  pilgrim  journeying  to  Bai- 
reuth  was  born  in  New  York.  He  had  studied 
music  like  most  young  people  in  his  country, 
and  had  begun  with  that  camel,  that  musical 
beast  of  all  burdens,  the  piano.  This  he  prac- 
tised most  assiduously  at  intervals,  because  he 
really  loved  music;  but  college,  lawn- tennis, 
golfing,  dancing,  and  motor-boating  had  claims 
not  easily  put  aside.  Naturally,  the  piano  suf- 
fered until  Paul  left  college;  then  for  want  of 
something  better  to  do  he  took  lessons  from 
Joseffy  and  edified  that  master  by  his  spurts  of 
industry.  His  club  began  to  encroach  on  his 
attention,  and  again  the  piano  was  forgotten. 
Paul,  whose  parents  were  rich,  was  not  a  society 
butterfly,  but  his  training,  instincts,  and  asso- 
ciations forced  him  to  regard  a  good  dinner,  a 
good  tailor,  and  a  racing  motor-car  as  necessary 
to  his  existence.  From  his  mother  he  inherited 
his  love  of  music,  and  his  father,  dead  many 
years,  had  bequeathed  him  a  library;  better 
still,  a  taste  for  reading. 

An  average  cultivated  American,  intensely 
self-conscious,  too  self-conscious  to  show  him- 
self at  his  best,  ashamed  of  his  finer  emotions, 
like  most  of  his  countrymen,  and  a  trifle  spoiled 
and  shallow. 

One  day  Edgar  Saltus  told  Paul  he  should 
read  Schopenhauer,  and  he  at  once  ordered  the 
two  volumes  of  The  World  as  Will  and  Rep- 
226 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

resentation.  It  was  not  difficult  reading,  be- 
cause he  had  been  in  Professor  Bowne's  class  at 
college  and  enjoyed  the  cracking  of  meta- 
physical nuts.  He  began  to  get  side  glimpses 
of  Wagner's  philosophy,  but  despite  the  wit  of 
the  German  Diogenes  his  pessimism  repelled 
him.  He  could  not  agree  with  Saltus's  ingenious 
defense  of  pessimism  in  his  two  early  books,  and 
he  looked  about  for  diversion  elsewhere.  Walter 
Pater's  silken  chords,  velvety  verbal  music, 
had  seduced  Paul  from  the  astringencies  of 
Herbert  Spencer,  and  Chopin  made  moonlight 
for  his  soul  on  morbid  nights. 

Yet  Paul,  with  his  selfish,  well-bred,  easy  life, 
had  encountered  no  soul-racking  convulsions; 
he  had  never  been  in  love,  therefore  he  played 
the  nocturnes  of  Chopin  in  a  very  unconvinc- 
ing manner. 

He  always  declared  that  Poe  was  bilious,  and 
this  remark  gained  for  him  the  reputation  of 
wit  and  scholar  among  his  club  associates. 

The  Calumel  Club  is  not  given  to  velleites  of 
speech.  .  .  . 

n 

Then  Paul  Godard  fell  into  the  clutches  of 
Richard  Wagner  and  swallowed  much  of  him. 

Chopin  seemed  tiny,  exotic,  and  feminine 
compared  to  the  sirocco  blasts  of  the  Baireuth 
master.  Paul  was  not  too  critical,  and,  like 
most  Americans,  he  measured  music  by  its  im- 
mediate emotional  result.  The  greater  the  as- 
227 


BEDOUINS 

sault  upon  the  senses,  the  greater  the  music. 
The  logic  was  inescapable. 

Friedrich  Nietzsche  was  the  next  milestone  in 
Paul's  mental  journeyings.  The  attack  on  Wag- 
ner, the  attack  on  the  morals  that  made  our 
state  stable,  the  savage  irony,  sparkling  wit,  and 
brilliant  onslaught  on  all  the  idols,  filled  the 
mind  of  the  young  man  with  joy.  He  dearly 
loved  a  row,  and  though  he  recognized  Nordau's 
borrowed  polemical  plumage,  he  liked  him  be- 
cause of  his  cockiness. 

So  he  devoured  Nietzsche,  reckless  of  his 
logical  inferences,  reckless  of  the  feelings  of  his 
poor  mother,  a  most  devoted  Episcopalian  of 
the  High  Church  variety.  Paul  always  pained 
her  with  his  sudden  somersaults,  his  amazing 
change  of  attitude,  and,  above  all,  his  heartless 
contempt  for  her  idols,  the  Church  and  good 
society.  Society  sufficed  her  soul  hunger,  and 
Paul's  renunciation  of  Mozart  and  Donizetti  — 
she  simply  loved  Lucia  —  his  sarcastic  flouting 
of  churchgoers  and  his  refusal  to  range  himself, 
were  additional  weeds  of  woe  in  her  mourning 
life. 

There  was  Edith  Vicker;  but  Paul  was  such  a 
hopeless  case  and  wouldn't  see  that  a  nice,  pretty, 
rich,  moderately  intelligent,  well-reared  young 
woman  was  slipping  through  his  fingers.  Mrs. 
Godard  often  sighed  that  winter  in  her  sump- 
tuous uptown  apartment. 

Nietzsche  revealed  new  intellectual  vistas  for 
Paul  and  he  actually  became  serious.  The 
228 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

notion  of  regarding  one's  own  personality  as  a 
possible  work  of  art  to  be  labored  upon  and 
polished  to  perfection's  point,  set  him  thinking 
hard.  What  had  he  done  with  his  life?  What 
wasted  opportunities !  He  deserted  his  club 
and  began  piano-playing  again,  and  when  re- 
proached by  his  friends  for  his  fickleness  he 
excused  himself  by  quoting  Nietzsche;  a  thinker, 
as  well  as  a  snake,  must  shed  his  skin  once  a 
year,  else  death.  He  also  was  ready  with  Emer- 
son's phrase  about  fools  being  consistent,  and 
felt  altogether  very  fine,  and  superior  to  his 
fellow-beings.  Nietzsche  feeds  the  flame  of 
one's  vanity,  and  Paul  was  sure  that  he  belonged 
to  the  quintessential  band  of  elect  souls  that  is 
making  for  the  Uebermensch  —  the  Superman ! 
He  really  was  a  nice,  boyish  lad,  and  he  could 
never  pass  a  pretty  girl  —  whether  a  countess  or 
a  chambermaid  —  without  making  soft  eyes  at 
her.  Paul  was  popular;  and  so  the  Roumanian 
ladies  laughed  at  him  admiringly.  Paul  had 
left  his  mother  in  Paris,  the  heat  was  too  trying 
for  travel,  and  he  was  close  to  Baireuth  on  this 
torrid  summer  day,  one  Sunday  afternoon  in 

July- 

Yet  another  hour  before  him,  he  turned  his 
critical  attention  to  the  laughing  trio.  One  was 
a  princess.  She  told  Paul  so,  and  spoke  of  the 
sultry  diversions  of  Bucharest.  The  second  was 
a  fat  singer,  who  startled  the  Englishman  by 
inquiring  if  there  wasn't  a  good  coloratura  part 
in  Parsifal.  If  there  were,  she  intended  asking 
229 


BEDOUINS 

Frau  Cosima  Wagner  to  let  her  sing  it;  but  if 
there  wasn't,  she  supposed  she  would  have  to 
be  content  with  the  Forest  Bird;  even  Melba 
had  been  a  Waldvogel,  why  couldn't  she  be  one 
also? 

Her  sparkling  eyes  and  mountain  of  flesh 
amused  Paul  exceedingly.  He  knew  Heinrich 
Conried  very  well,  and  he  told  the  singer  that 
when  Parsifal  was  sung  next  season  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan Opera  House  he  would  speak  to  the 
impresario  and  get  her  the  part  of  Kundry.  It 
was  for  a  lark-like  voice,  such  as  the  lady  said 
she  possessed,  and  full  of  Bellinian  fioritura. 

As  he  gravely  related  these  fables  he  was  con- 
scious of  the  penetrating  gaze  of  the  third 
woman.  She  was  tall,  frail-looking,  with  a  dark 
skin,  hair  black  and  glossy,  and  she  had  the 
most  melancholy  eyes  in  the  world.  Paul  re- 
turned her  glance  with  discretion.  His  eyes 
were  Irish  blue-gray  and  full  of  the  devil  at 
times,  and  they  could  be  very  sympathetic  and 
melting  when  he  willed.  The  two  young  people 
examined  each  other  with  that  calm  regard 
which,  as  Schopenhauer  declares,  mars  or  makes 
the  destiny  of  a  new  generation.  But  metaphys- 
ics and  the  biology  of  the  sexes  bothered  not  at 
all  the  youth  and  maiden.  Paul  admired  the 
classic  regularity  of  her  nose  and  forehead,  and 
wondered  why  her  face  seemed  familiar.  Her 
mouth  was  large,  irregular,  perverse.  It  sug- 
gested Marie  Bashkir  tseff's,  and  it  was  just  as 
yearning  and  dissatisfied.  Despite  their  sadness, 
230 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

fun  lurked  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  and  he 
knew  that  she  enjoyed  his  harmless  hoax. 

Then  they  both  burst  out  laughing,  and  the 
princess  said  in  a  surprised  voice: 

"Helena,  why  do  you  laugh  with  the  young 
American  gentleman?" 

She  also  mentioned  a  family  name  that  caused 
the  New  Yorker  to  stare.  What,  was  this  girl 
with  the  determined  chin  and  brows  the  identical 
one  who  almost  set  Russia  quarrelling  with  an- 
other nation  and  upset  the  peace  of  Roumania? 
Yes,  it  was,  and  Paul  no  longer  puzzled  over  her 
face.  It  had  been  common  property  of  the 
photographers  and  newspaper  illustrators  a  few 
years  ago,  and  as  he  mentally  indexed  its  features 
he  almost  said  aloud  that  her  curious  beauty 
had  never  been  even  faintly  reproduced. 

His  imagination  was  stirred;  Roumania  had 
always  seemed  so  remote,  and  here  was  he,  Paul 
Godard,  a  plain  American  citizen,  face  to  face 
with  the  heroine  of  one  of  those  mysterious 
Eastern  intrigues  in  which  kings,  crowns,  queens, 
and  ladies-in-waiting  were  all  delightfully  mixed 
up.  So  he  chatted  with  Helena  about  Wagner 
and  Degeneracy,  and  discovered  that  she  was 
an  admirer  of  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  Nietzsche, 
Guy  de  Maupassant,  Poe,  Schumann,  Chopin, 
Marie  Bashkirtseff,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  sick- 
brained  people  born  during  the  sick-brained 
nineteenth  century.  She,  too,  had  written  a 
book,  which  was  soon  to  appear.  It  was  full  of 
the  Weltzchmerz  of  Schopenhauer  and  the  bold 
231 


BEDOUINS 

upspringing  individualism  of  Nietzsche.  She  had 
odd  theories  concerning  the  Ring  of  the  Nibe- 
lungs,  and  had  read  Browning's  Sordello.  She 
told  Paul  that  she  found  but  one  stumbling-block 
in  Wagner.  How,  she  asked  gravely,  with  a 
slight  blush  —  how  could  Parsifal  become  Lohen- 
grin's father? 

Paul  said  he  didn't  know.  It  must  have  oc- 
curred long  after  his  experiences  with  Kundry 
and  the  Flower  Girls,  and  perhaps  it  was  a  sort 
of 

"Oh,  no,  M.  Godard !"  she  quickly  answered. 
"Not  that.  The  swan  died,  you  know;  besides, 
Parsifal  was  always  a  Pure  Fool."  Paul  sug- 
gested that  it  might  have  been  another  of  the 
same  name  but  of  a  different  family.  And  then 
the  conversation  went  to  pieces,  for  the  soprano 
called  out: 

"Voila!  Baireuth,  the  Wagner  theatre!" 
and  they  all  craned  their  necks  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  that  mystic  edifice  built  on  the  hill, 
the  new  musical  Pantheon,  the  new  St.  Peter's 
of  the  Bewitched  Ones. 

And  the  Englishman  continued  to  calmly  read 
about  the  Loki-motif  as  the  train  slowly  steamed 
into  Baireuth. 

m 

Paul  found  comfortable  lodgings  in  the  Liszt- 

strasse  and  his  new  friends  went  to  the  Hotel 

Sonne.    At  half-past  four  he  was  up  on  the  hill 

looking  at  the  world,  and  as  immaculately  dressed 

232 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

as  if  he  stood  in  the  bow  window  of  the  Calumel 
Club,  ogling  Fifth  Avenue  girls.  He  was  only 
vaguely  interested  in  the  approaching  perform- 
ance, and  his  pulses  did  not  quicken  when  Don- 
ner's  motif  told  the  gabbling,  eager  throng  that 
the  great  Trilogy  was  about  to  unfold  its  fables 
of  water,  wood,  and  wind.  He  took  his  seat 
unconcernedly,  and  then  the  house  became 
black  and  from  space  welled  up  those  elemental 
sounds,  not  merely  music,  but  the  sighing,  dron- 
ing swish  of  waters.  The  Rhine  calmly,  majes- 
tically stole  over  Paul's  senses,  he  forgot  New 
York,  and  when  the  curtains  parted  he  was  with 
the  Rhine  Daughters,  with  Alberich,  and  his 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  All  sense  of 
identity  vanished  at  a  wave  of  Wagner's  magic 
wand,  and  not  being  a  music-critic,  his  ego  was 
absorbed  as  by  the  shuiing  mirror  in  the  hand 
of  a  hypnotist.  This,  then,  was  Wagner,  a 
Wagner  who  attacked  simultaneously  all  the 
senses,  vanquished  the  strongest  brain,  smoth- 
ered, bruised,  and  smashed  it;  wept,  sang,  surged, 
roared,  sighed  in  it;  searched  and  ravished  your 
soul  until  it  was  put  to  flight,  routed,  vanquished, 
and  brought  bleeding  and  captive  to  the  feet 
of  the  master. 

The  eye  was  promise-crammed,  the  ears  sealed 
with  bliss,  and  Paul  felt  the  wet  of  the  waters. 
He  panted  as  Alberich  scaled  the  slimy  steeps, 
and  the  curves,  described  by  the  three  swimming 
mermaids,  filled  him  with  the  joy  of  the  dance. 

The  rape  of  the  Rhinegold,  the  hoarse  shout 
233 


BEDOUINS 

of  laughter  from  Alberich's  love-forsworn  lips, 
and  the  terrified  cries  of  the  three  watchers  were 
to  Paul  as  real  as  Wall  Street. 

Walhall  didn't  bore  him,  and  he  began  at  last 
to  catch  faint  clues  of  the  meaning  of  the  mighty 
epic.  He  went  to  the  underworld,  and  saw  the 
snake,  the  ring,  and  the  tarnhelm;  he  heard  the 
anvil  chorus  —  so  different  from  Verdi's !  —  he 
saw  the  giants  quarrelling  over  their  booty,  and 
the  rainbow  seemed  to  bridge  the  way  to  an- 
other, brighter  world.  As  the  Walhall  march 
died  in  Paul's  ears  he  found  himself  in  the  open 
air,  and  he  thought  it  all  over  as  he  slowly  went 
with  the  crowd  down  the  hill,  that  new  Mount 
of  Olives  trod  by  the  feet  of  musical  martyrs. 
He  had  a  programme,  but  he  was  too  confused, 
too  overcome  by  the  clangor  of  his  brain-parti- 
cles, to  read  it.  He  was  not  dreaming,  nor  yet 
was  he  awake;  he  was  Wagnerized.  The  first 
attack  is  not  always  fatal,  but  it  is  always 
severe,  even  to  the  point  of  pain.  Paul  God- 
ard  had  become  a  Wagnerite,  and  his  Nietzsche 
and  Schopenhauer  skins  melted  from  him  as 
melts  the  snow  in  sunshine. 

Striking  through  his  many  exalted  moods  was 
the  consciousness  of  having  recognized  one  of 
the  Rhine  Daughters.  It  was  the  contralto,  an 
Eastern  girl  from  Maine.  Rue  Towne  was  her 
odd  name,  and  she  had  been  once  a  pupil  of  a 
New  England  vocal  school,  but  she  had  lived 
that  down,  and  after  the  usual  hard,  interest- 
ing struggle  abroad  she  had  reached  Baireuth. 
234 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

Paul  remembered  her  well.  A  blonde  girl,  eyes 
indescribably  gray,  with  dark  lashes,  a  face  full 
of  interesting  accents,  a  rhythmic  chin  and  cheek- 
bones that  told  of  resolution.  Her  figure  was 
lovely,  and  Paul  resolved  to  call  on  her  the  very 
next  day. 

He  soon  discovered  Rue's  address;  Baireuth 
is  small  and  full  of  information  for  the  curious. 
Paul  on  Monday  morning  went  to  the  Alexan- 
derstrasse,  where  she  resided,  only  to  find  her 
at  a  rehearsal  of  Die  Walkiire.  He  was  rather 
put  out,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  accomplish 
what  he  wanted  without  much  exertion.  He 
then  bethought  him  of  Helena,  the  Roumanian 
beauty,  and  he  warmed  at  the  recollection  of  a 
glance  he  had  received  the  afternoon  previous. 
That,  and  the  hand  pressure,  had  been  unmistak- 
able. So  he  went  to  the  Sonne  Hotel  and  sent 
up  his  card.  The  three  ladies  were  at  breakfast. 
Would  Mr.  Godard  call  in  an  hour  ? 

Paul  cursed  his  luck  and  walked  to  Wahn- 
fried,  wondering  if  he  was  to  be  bored  during 
his  stay.  The  reaction  from  the  exalted  condi- 
tion after  Rhinegold  had  set  in.  Paul  was  not 
a  beer-drinker,  so  he  could  not  avail  himself  of 
the  consolations  offered  by  Gambrinus,  the 
Drowsy  Deity  of  Germany.  He  had  taken  a 
pint  of  bad  champagne  and  some  tough  chicken 
and  slept  badly.  His  cigar,  too,  was  abomina- 
ble, and  he  felt  absolutely  disillusioned  as  he 
paced  the  historic  garden  of  Wahnfried.  The 
true  Wagnerite  is  always  in  heaven  or  hades. 
235 


BEDOUINS 

There  is  no  middle-distance  in  his  picture  of  life 
and  art.  At  Wagner's  grave  Paul  felt  a  return 
of  the  thrill,  but  it  passed  away  at  the  barking 
of  a  boarhound.  He  went  slowly  toward  the 
hotel  and  was  in  such  a  perverse  mood  that  he 
avoided  it  and  turned  into  the  Ludwigstrasse. 
Then  he  met  some  one. 

A  girl  passed  him,  gave  him  a  shy,  half- 
startled  glance,  hesitated,  and  spoke  to  him.  It 
was  Rue  Towne. 

"Mr.  Gpdard,  I  found  your  card  a  moment 
ago.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  How  did  you 
likeRhinegold?" 

Paul  was  standing  in  the  street,  the  girl  look- 
ing down  into  his  eyes;  he  made  a  conventional 
answer,  their  hands  touched,  and  they  went 
down  the  street  together. 

That  afternoon  Paul  received  a  pretty  note 
from  the  Roumanian.  She  wrote  of  her  sorrow 
at  his  not  having  called  again,  and  asked  him  to 
join  them  during  the  first  entr'acte  of  Die  Wal- 
kiire.  He  tossed  the  note  away,  for  his  brain  was 
filled  with  the  vision  of  a  girl  in  a  straight- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  a  girl  with  a  voice  like  a  woo- 
ing clarinet  and  eyes  that  were  dewy  with  desire. 
Paul  was  hard  hit,  and,  as  one  nail  drives  out 
another,  the  blonde  woman  supplanted  the  bru- 
nette in  his  easily  stirred  imagination. 

The  first  act  of  Die  Walkiire  did  not  lay  the  fair 

ghost  in  his  brain;  he  went  out  on  the  esplanade 

and  encountered  the  three  Roumanians.    Helena 

detached  herself  and  came  to  him  with  that 

236 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

gracious  gait  and  proud  lift  of  head  and  throat 
that  gave  her  a  touch  of  royalty.  She  re- 
proached him  with  her  magnetic  gaze,  and  soon 
the  pair  were  strolling  in  the  leafy  lanes  about 
the  theatre. 

Paul  had  never  met  a  woman  who  mentally 
tantalized  him  as  did  Helena.  She  had  a  man- 
ner of  half  uttering  a  sentence,  of  putting  a 
nuance  into  her  question  that  interested  while  it 
irritated  him.  Artistic  people  are  mutually  at- 
tracted, and  there  was  a  savor  in  the  personality 
of  this  distinguished  girl  that  was  infinitely  en- 
ticing to  his  cultivated  taste  and  at  the  same 
time  slightly  enigmatic.  Without  effort  they 
glided  into  confidences,  and  the  Sword-motive 
sounding  for  the  second  act  found  them  old 
friends.  Youth  is  not  the  time  for  halting  com- 
promise. 

Lilli  Lehmann's  art  took  Paul  out  of  himself, 
and  the  beauty  and  vigor  of  the  act  stirred  him 
again.  But  he  could  not  recapture  the  first  fine, 
careless  rapture  of  the  night  before.  To  the 
nerves,  virginal  of  Wagner,  that  thrill  comes  once 
only. 

In  the  long  intermission  Paul  found  Helena 
and  took  her  to  the  crowded  cafe  across  the  road 
to  get  something  to  eat  and  drink.  It  was  a 
quarter  after  seven,  and  Wagner  wears  on  the 
stomach.  Even  a  poetical  Roumanian  girl  has 
earthly  appetites.  So  they  drank  champagne 
and  ate  pasties  of  goose  liver,  and  confessions 
were  many.  Nothing  establishes  a  strong  bond 
237 


BEDOUINS 

of  sympathy  like  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  two 
healthy  young  humans.  Paul  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  Rue  and  the  splendour  of  her  hair  and 
complexion.  He  was  rapidly  losing  his  head  in 
the  subtle  blandishments  of  the  Eastern  woman. 
He  saw  that  she  was  a  coquette,  but  her  serious- 
ness, her  fierceness,  that  broke  through  the  shell 
of  silky  manners,  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  a  woman 
worth  winning,  and  he  was  just  gambler  enough, 
American  enough  to  dare.  When  he  left  her  he 
carried  away  a  look  that  was  an  unequivocal 
challenge. 

Paul's  brain  was  on  fire  during  the  Ride  of 
the  Valkyries,  and  hardly  realized  that  it  was 
Hans  Richter's  masterly  reading.  The  stage 
failed  to  interest  him  until  he  discovered  Rue 
in  Valkyrean  garb,  and  then  he  watched  with 
his  soul  in  his  eyes.  Her  profile,  so  charming  in 
its  irregularity;  her  freedom  of  pose,  her  heroic 
action  filled  him  with  admiration.  By  the  light 
from  the  stage  he  read  her  name,  Fraulein  Rue 
Towne,  and  she  was  the  last  in  the  list  of  the 
Valkyries.  He  watched  with  indifferent  gaze  the 
close  of  the  act,  and  mentally  voted  the  Paris 
version  of  the  Magic-Fire  scene  far  superior  to 
Baireuth's. 

He  went  toward  the  Hotel  Sonne,  as  he  had 
promised  to  sup  with  Helena,  and  wondered  how 
he  could  see  Rue  that  night.  The  American  girl 
seemed  something  infinitely  sweet,  healthy,  sun- 
swept  in  nature  compared  with  her  Slavic  rival. 

"By  Jove,"  said  Paul  aloud,  "it's  a  case  of 
238 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

rouge  et  noir,  and  I'm  in  for  it  and  no  mistake." 
Paul  was  fond  of  polyphony. 

IV 

After  supper  he  suggested  to  Helena  the  Sam- 
met  Garden.  The  artists  always  flocked  there 
and  it  might  prove  interesting.  Although  a 
chaperon  was  a  necessity,  Helena  persuaded  the 
princess  that  she  could  go  out  just  once  in  the 
American  fashion.  It  would  be  so  novel.  Paul 
pleaded  and,  of  course,  won.  The  young  people 
hardly  spoke  as  they  went  down  the  dark  street 
to  the  garden.  The  air  was  full  of  electricity. 
A  touch,  a  glance,  and  a  storm  would  be  pre- 
cipitated. So  they  reached  the  garden  and 
found  a  seat  near  enough  the  house  to  be  tor- 
tured by  Herr  Sammet's  crazy  trombone.  At 
the  same  table  was  a  black-bearded  little  man 
dressed  in  white  flannels. 

"It  is  the  Sar  Peladan;  I  know  him  by  his 
musk,"  said  Helena  discontentedly,  and  they 
changed  their  seats. 

"What  a  decadent  you  are!"  said  Godard 
laughingly. 

"Yes.  I  believe  sometimes  I  can  think  with 
my  nose,  my  smelling  sense  is  so  keen.  I  can 
almost  divine  approaching  enemies.  Who  is 
that  girl  staring  at  you  so  hard,  M.  Godard,  a 
very  pretty  blonde;  she  looks  like  an  American? 
No,  not  near  the  house  —  there,  over  there!" 
Helena  reminded  Paul  of  a  cat  that  lifts  a  threat- 
239 


BEDOUINS 

ening  furry  back  when  she  scents  a  hostile 
dog. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  he  groaned.  "It  must  be  Rue. 
That  settles  me  for  good."  It  was  Rue,  and 
she  had  never  looked  lovelier.  The  slight  bruise 
under  her  eyes  betokened  emotional  exhaustion. 
She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  the  simplicity  of 
her  gown  and  its  charming  fit  made  the  German 
women  plainer.  Paul's  heart  knocked  against 
his  ribs  as  he  returned  her  constrained  bow.  He 
saw  that  she  had  quietly  and  earnestly  examined 
Helena,  and  as  the  eyes  of  the  women  met  an- 
tagonism kindled.  But  the  American  girl  was 
mistress  of  herself.  She  began  to  talk  to  the 
group  of  artists  about  her,  while  Helena  sulked 
and  glowered  at  Paul's  too  openly  expressed 
admiration. 

"You  admire  your  own  countrywomen,  do 
you  not,  M.  Godard?"  she  asked,  and  the  in- 
flection in  her  voice  was  cruelly  sarcastic.  Be- 
fore Paul  could  answer  she  touched  his  arm  softly 
and  said: 

"If  you  can't  look  at  me  when  I  talk  to  you, 
why,  you  may  take  me  home." 

Paul  at  once  begged  her  pardon,  called  for 
his  reckoning  and  they  prepared  to  leave  the 
garden.  He  did  not  again  salute  Rue  Towne, 
for  she  was  talking  earnestly  to  an  ugly  old  fat 
man  with  a  grey  beard  and  a  Wagnerian  fore- 
head half  a  foot  high.  But  from  the  tail  of  his 
eye  he  saw  that  she  was  fully  conscious  of  his 
departure.  Scarlet  spots  came  into  her  face,  and 
240 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

as  Paul  walked  down  the  garden  steps  he  felt 
as  if  two  eyes  burned  into  his  back.  Then  he 
did  what  other  desperate  men  have  done  under 
similar  circumstances.  He  made  violent  love  to 
Helena,  and  it  relieved  the  pain  of  his  heart. 
But  the  girl  was  capricious,  and  only  by  dint  of 
magnificent  lying  did  he  finally  force  her  hand 
into  his.  They  were  now  walking  toward  the 
Hofgarten,  down  a  deserted  street.  The  many 
bells  of  'Baireuth  told  them  that  it  was  a 
quarter  past  eleven,  and  the  moon  rode  tenderly 
in  the  blue.  It  was  a  night  made  for  soft  vows 
and  kisses,  and  as  Paul  walked  he  thought  of 
Rue;  Helena  fell  to  dreaming  of  the  prince  in 
her  native  Roumania  who  had  played  the  weak- 
ling to  her  strong  woman's  heart,  and  thus  the 
pair  reached  the  hotel,  and  after  a  brief  parley 
at  its  door  said  good  night  and  parted. 

O  blessed  love,  that  can  at  least  console  two 
hearts  glowing  for  the  absent ! 

Paul  awoke  next  morning  with  what  the  hard- 
headed  Germans  call  a  moral  headache.  He 
had  a  bad  taste  in  his  conscience,  and  he  decided 
to  call  as  soon  as  possible  on  Rue.  It  was 
nearly  eleven  before  he  got  to  her  house.  As 
she  had  no  rehearsal  for  Siegfried,  she  received 
him.  He  thought  that  she  was  distant,  but  he 
talked  fast  and  earnestly,  and  soon  the  ice 
began  to  thaw.  Paul  felt  happy.  Helena  ap- 
pealed to  his  decadent  taste,  but  Rue  was  as 
the  perfume  of  the  morning.  He  told  her  so, 
and  explained  at  great  length  and  with  consid- 
241 


BEDOUINS 

erable  ingenuity  how  he  came  in  the  company 
of  a  lone  young  woman.  Her  two  chaperons  — 
Paul  fancied  two  sounded  more  imposing  —  had 
gone  by  mistake  to  the  garden  of  the  Sonne 
Hotel;  that  is  why  he  left  so  soon  with  the  lady, 
who  was  only  a  recent  acquaintance. 

He  felt  Rue's  eyes  on  him  as  he  wove  this 
roundelay,  and,  feeling  hot  about  the  neck  and 
a  little  fearful  of  his  ability  to  keep  up  the 
strain  much  longer,  he  suddenly  grasped  the 
girl,  crying  out,  and  most  sincerely: 

"0  Rue !  why  do  we  waste  time  talking  about 
a  woman  I  never  cared  for  and  never  expect  to 
see  again.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  my  darling ! 
Kiss  me  just  once  and  tell  me  you  care  a  little 
for  me." 

As  he  fell  upon  her  she  was  taken  off  her 
guard,  and  the  inevitable  happened.  She  kissed 
Paul  and  he  placed  a  big  ring  on  her  finger,  and 
left  the  house  an  hour  later  an  engaged  and  also 
a  much  be-perjured  man.  He  was  happy  until 
he  thought  of  Helena. 

That  evening  when  Siegfried  was  finished 
Paul  walked  arm  and  arm  with  Rue  down  the 
hill  to  Sammet's.  As  they  entered  they  brushed 
against  three  ladies,  and  Paul  said  aloud:  "Oh, 
Lord!" 

The  next  day  Rue  had  to  go  to  a  rehearsal  for 
the  Rhine  Daughters  in  Die  Gotterdammerung, 
and  Paul  was  whistling  the  Spring  Song  from 
Die  Walkure  in  his  room  when  a  knock  at  his 
door  brought  the  news  that  a  lady  wished  to 
242 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

see  him.  He  wondered  who  the  lady  was,  and, 
as  the  parlor  of  the  house  had  been  turned  into 
a  bedroom,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  into  the 
hall,  to  be  confronted  by  Helena,  shamefaced 
but  resolute. 

"Come  out  into  the  street,"  he  begged,  for  in 
her  implacable  eyes  he  read  signs  of  the  ap- 
proaching storm. 

They  silently  descended  to  a  lower  6tage. 
Then  she  turned  and  faced  him: 

"So  you  didn't  come  to  me  this  morning/' 
she  said.  Roumania  excited  was  a  stirring  spec- 
tacle, nevertheless  Paul  wished  that  he  was  up 
the  Hudson  playing  golf. 

He  endeavored  to  placate  her.  Helena,  an- 
gered at  her  loss  of  dignity  in  condescending 
to  call  on  this  man,  reproached  him  bitterly, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  about  to  sing 
the  picturesque  songs  of  hate  which  Carmen 
Sylva  has  made  known  to  us,  when  they  reached 
the  street.  Then  her  rage  vanished  in  a  moment. 

"You  conceited  man,  and  you  really  took  me 
in  solemn  earnest!  I  fancied  the  Americans 
had  a  sense  of  humor.  Pooh!  You're  not  a 
man  to  love  more  than  a  moment,  anyhow," 
and  she  went  on  her  way  laughing  mockingly, 
leaving  Paul  shamefaced,  angered,  his  self-love 
all  bruised  and  his  senses  aroused,  for  Helena 
wrathful  was  more  beautiful  than  Helena  ami- 
able. 

He  was  so  distressed  in  mind  that  he  only  sat 
through  one  act  of  Die  Gotterdammerung;  his 
243 


BEDOUINS 

Wagner  madness  seemed  to  have  evaporated. 
He  hovered  around  the  back  of  the  theatre,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Rue  getting  in  a  carriage 
with  the  same  fat  old  German  —  her  singing- 
teacher,  he  fancied. 

Although  it  was  late,  he  called  at  her  house. 
She  had  not  yet  arrived,  the  maid  told  him. 
He  mooned  about  disconsolately  until  one 
o'clock,  keeping  at  a  safe  distance  from  the 
Hotel  Sonne.  Then  he  wearily  went  to  bed 
and  dreamed  that  the  Nornes  were  chasing  him 
down  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  next  morning  he  called  again  on  Rue.  She 
sent  down  word  that  she  was  tired.  He  called 
again  in  the  afternoon;  she  was  not  at  home. 
In  the  evening,  feeling  as  if  he  were  going  mad, 
he  was  told  that  she  had  gone  out  and  would 
not  be  back  until  late.  He  hung  around  the 
house  in  a  hungry-dog  fashion,  smiling  bitterly 
at  times  and  beginning  to  doubt  even  his  own 
intentions.  But  no  Rue. 

He  went  home  at  last,  and  in  a  rage  of  love 
and  jealousy  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Rue  this 
letter: 

"Rue,  my  Rue,  darling,  what  is  the  matter? 
Have  I  offended  you?  Why  did  you  not  see 
me  to-day,  to-night?  Oh,  how  lonely  was  the 
street,  how  sad  my  heart!  I  thought  of  Ver- 
laine's  'It  rains  in  my  heart  as  it  rains  in  the 
town.'  Why  don't  you  see  me?  You  are  mine; 
you  swore  it.  My  sweet  girl,  whose  heart  is  as 
fragrant  as  new-mown  hay !  Darling,  you  must 
244 


VENUS  OR  VALKYR? 

see  me  to-morrow  —  to-day  —  for  I  am  writing 
to  you  in  the  early,  early  morning.  You  know 
that  you  promised  to  come  to  me  next  year  in 
America.  Only  think,  sweetheart,  what  joy 
then !  The  sky  is  aflame  with  love.  We  walk 
slowly  under  few  soft  spring  stars,  and  your 
hand  is  in  mine,  and  that  night,  that  night  your 
heart  will  sob  on  my  breast,  my  lovely  woman, 
and  your  heart  will  fiercely  beat  as  we  both  slip 
over  the  hills  to  heaven.  Rue,  you  will  make 
me  a  poet.  Only  tell  me,  I  beg  of  you,  the 
hour  when  I  may  see  you." 

Then  Paul  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  but  not 
to  sleep.  It  was  daybreak,  and  the  Teutonic 
chanticleer  of  the  dawn  had  lusty  lungs,  and  it 
was  almost  time  for  coffee.  He  dressed  in  fever- 
ish haste,  went  out  of  doors,  secured  a  messenger 
and  despatched  the  letter.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  Lisztstrasse  for  twenty  minutes,  and 
his  emotion  was  so  great  at  the  sight  of  the  boy 
returning,  a  letter  in  hand,  that  he  retreated  into 
the  doorway  and  awaited  the  news.  It  was 
brief.  He  read  this  in  Rue's  firm  handwriting: 

"Your  friend  Helena  has  told  me  all.  Here 
is  your  ring." 

There  was  no  signature. 

Then  Paul  did  what  most  cowards  do.  He 
went  to  the  other  woman.  The  storm  in  his 
soul  might  be  allayed,  and  he  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  showing  Rue  that  she  was  not  neces- 
sary to  him.  Of  course  the  jealousy  of  Helena 
had  spoiled  his  game;  for  he  really  had  meant 
245 


BEDOUINS 

to  be  sincere  with  Rue,  so  he  told  himself  in  the 
inward,  eloquent  manner  which  paves  hell  with 
composite  intentions.  It  was  all  clear  to  him, 
Helena  loved  him,  else  why  did  she  tell  Rue  of 
his  double-dealing  ?  It  gave  him  a  glowing  feel- 
ing again  in  his  distracted  bosom,  and  as  he 
walked  into  the  Hotel  Sonne  he  said  between 
clutched  teeth: 

"Black  wins!" 

He  was  met  by  a  polite  portier,  who  told  him 
that  his  friends  had  left  on  the  early  train  for 
Vienna.  But  there  was  a  letter ! 

Heart-sick  and  with  trembling  hands  he  tore 
open  the  envelope. 

"Did  you  really  think  I  loved  an  American 
when  I  can  have  a  Roumanian  ?  Better  console 
your  singer." 

No  signature. 

"When  does  the  next  train  leave  for  Paris?" 
asked  Paul  of  the  polite  portier. 

There  is  a  rumor  in  society  that  Paul  God- 
ard  is  engaged  to  Edith  Vicker.  He  never 
goes  to  a  Wagner  music-drama,  and  is  passion- 
ately addicted  to  cabaret  dancing. 

Americans  are  versatile. 


246 


V 
THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 

YAKOV  leaned  out  of  his  window  and  greedily 
listened  to  the  Cardinal  playing  his  fiddle.  The 
window  was  small  and  under  a  hot  roof.  From 
it  a  view  of  the  great  palace  of  his  Eminence  was 
easy,  for  the  house  of  Yakov's  mother  stood  in 
a  narrow  court  at  the  rear,  and  was  a  low-sized 
building,  not  far  from  the  Cathedral  which 
dominated  this  old-fashioned  and  once  aristo- 
cratic section  of  the  city.  The  bedroom  of  the 
boy  was  on  a  level  with  the  living-room  of  the 
Cardinal  —  a  tall,  spare  old  man  with  mild 
eyes  and  ascetic  face.  His  bushy  white  hair 
and  ruddy  complexion,  coupled  with  a  high, 
hawk-like  nose,  gave  him  the  appearance,  in 
Yakov's  eyes,  of  a  benevolent  bird  of  exotic 
origin.  Stranger  still  was  his  passion  for  music. 
At  least  once  a  day  he  could  be  seen  by  the  lad, 
walking  with  long,  elastic  strides  about  the  large 
bare  room,  a  violin  tucked  under  his  chin,  his 
eyes  closed,  and  he  fiddling  as  if  rehearsing  for 
a  classical  concert.  Yakov  knew  it  was  u  clas- 
sical^ music  because  he  couldn't  make  head  or 
tail  of  it,  although  he  was  studying  the  instru- 
ment himself  at  the  big  conservatory  on  the 
square.  But  he  was  only  a  beginner  —  that's 
247 


BEDOUINS 

what  his  cross  teacher  told  him  when  his  lesson 
was  a  poor  one  —  and  he  realized  the  fact,  while 
the  Cardinal  —  oh!  he  played  everything  diffi- 
cult, and  always  without  notes. 

He  wondered  why  this  kindly  old  gentleman 
in  the  queer  dress  should  fiddle  in  the  great  pal- 
ace across  the  way;  he,  so  rich  and  powerful, 
doing  for  fun  what  the  poor  little  Yiddish  boy 
did  as  a  task.  When  Yakov  could  play  he 
wouldn't  live  in  a  palace,  but  would  try  to  get 
a'  job  in  a  theatre  orchestra.  His  mother  an- 
swered his  query,  "What  is  a  cardinal?"  with  a 
vague,  "Oh,  he  is  a  sort  of  high  rabbi/'  which 
didn't  tell  her  son  much.  He  was  brought  up 
in  the  orthodox  faith,  went  to  Shool  —  the  syn- 
agogue —  and  was  careful  to  eat  no  food  that 
had  not  been  prepared  in  Kosher  fashion.  This 
last  practice  brought  him  into  conflict  with  the 
boys  of  his  class  at  the  public  school  around 
the  corner.  They  were  American  born,  though 
many  of  foreign  descent.  That  made  no  differ- 
ence, for,  as  much  as  they  quarrelled  with  one 
another,  they  were  a  unit  as  to  the  undesirabil- 
ity  of  the  Jew.  Their  teacher  had  scolded,  had 
even  punished  them,  but  uselessly.  They  were 
sarcastic,  were  these  boys  of  Italian,  Irish 
and  German  parents,  calling  aloud,  "Micky," 
"Dutchy,"  "Guinney,"  "Wop,"  but  for  Yakov 
and  his  like — in  the  majority  at  the  school — 
they  had  choicer  terms:  "Sheeny"  "Kike!" 
"Mekmek!"  Yakov  didn't  much  mind  the 
nicknames. 

248 


THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 

He  only  feared  the  suddenly  delivered  punches 
at  his  back,  the  vise-like  grip  of  "Jimmy  the 
Brick"  (self-christened)  on  his  neck,  and  the 
hateful  grin  with  which  a  ham  sandwich  would 
be  thrust  into  his  mouth.  This  last  was  the 
supreme  insult.  If  he  did  not  complain  to  his 
teacher,  it  was  because  he  feared  reprisals.  So 
he  only  told  his  mother,  with  tears  in  his  large, 
dark,  expressive  eyes,  and  she  comforted  him. 
She  said  it  was  the  glory  of  his  race,  this  badge 
of  suffering,  these  insults  from  the  Gentiles. 
He  must  not  fight  back,  but  meekly  endure. 
Jehovah  would  watch  over  him.  She  was  a 
decent  widow  woman,  who  had  a  small  dress- 
making business  in  her  house  and  barely  sup- 
ported herself  and  child,  also  giving  him  a  musi- 
cal education.  Oh !  to  see  him  a  great  violinist ! 
She  loved  music,  and  as  she  worked  her  sewing- 
machine  she  hummed  to  its  rhythms.  Once, 
many  years  ago,  she  had  heard  in  Lemberg,  her 
Galician  birthplace,  the  greatest  violinist  in  the 
world,  Joseph  Joachim,  and  one  of  her  race. 
She  was  unmarried  then,  yet  she  made  a  silent 
vow  that  if  ever  she  had  a  son  .  .  . 

She  had  Yakov  now,  and  his  father  was  gone. 
She  always  said  to  him  —  dead.  But  she  knew 
better.  He  had  deserted  her  for  another  woman, 
left  her  without  a  dollar,  and  she  had  been  fight- 
ing for  ten  years  to  keep  their  heads  above 
water.  Living  in  this  humble  yet  genteel  court 
behind  the  Cathedral,  she  dreamed  of  Yakov's 
future,  and  she  cried  with  joy  when  the  teacher 
249 


BEDOUINS 

at  the  conservatory  grudgingly  admitted  that 
the  boy  had  talent  and  might  —  he  coughed  his 
reservations  —  with  hard  work  make  a  fair 
musician.  Yakov  went  to  school  and  in  the 
afternoons  practised.  The  weather  was  warm, 
windows  were  opened,  and  he  attentively  heard 
the  fiddle  of  the  Cardinal. 

The  music  was  a  succession  of  beautiful  sounds 
for  the  young  visionary.  His  eyes  glittering,  his 
lips  apart,  his  arms  tightly  folded  about  his  thin 
little  frame,  he  listened  as  if  to  the  voice  of  God. 
The  Cardinal  played  the  slow  movement  of 
Mendelssohn's  concerto,  and,  threadbare  as  has 
become  this  familiar  song,  to  Yakov  it  was  an 
enchantment.  Its  obvious  sentiment  seemed  a 
call  from  his  dead  father  in  heaven.  When  the 
music  ceased  he  involuntarily  stretched  aloft  his 
arms.  The  eye  of  the  Cardinal  must  have 
caught  the  glint  of  white  —  the  boy  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  —  and  came  to  the  window  cau- 
tiously, peering  across  to  Yakov.  He  vaguely 
smiled,  and  to  Yakov's  sorrow  he  closed  the 
window,  yet  the  sound  of  his  fiddle  softly  echoed 
in  the  ears  of  the  boy. 

Every  evening  he  stationed  himself  at  the 
same  spot,  but  the  Cardinal  did  not  play. 
Yakov  yearned  for  his  music.  His  own  cheap 
red  fiddle  became  hateful  to  him.  Its  rasping 
tones  when  he  attempted  scales  extinguished  his 
ambition.  One  day  his  mother  said  in  her  purr- 
ing Yiddish:  "Yakov,  you  must  be  more  indus- 
trious, else  the  gentleman  at  the  conservatory 
250 


THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 

will  send  you  home."  Even  that  didn't  arouse 
him.  He  suddenly  took  to  playing  in  the  court 
with  the  other  boys  after  school.  Such  rough 
games !  He  stood  a  lot  of  kicking  and  punching, 
especially  from  Jimmy  the  Brick,  who,  after  all, 
wasn't  a  bad-hearted  chap.  He  once  grabbed 
Yakov's  lunch-box  and  critically  swallowed  the 
contents,  which  pleased  him,  as  he  liked  full- 
flavored  food.  "Say,  Kike,  that's  not  bad 
grub.  I  like  your  stuffed  fish  better  than  the 
macaroni  of  that  Wop  kid  Tony."  With  this 
backing  of  the  boss  Yakov  enjoyed  comparative 
peace.  He  had  thought  of  revenge,  of  organiz- 
ing into  a  compact  phalanx  the  large  body  of 
Jewish  boys  at  the  school,  but  his  mother's  ad- 
vice and  the  patience  of  his  race  dissuaded  him 
from  active  rebellion.  He  let  things  slide  along, 
and  in  the  meantime  his  music  was  almost  neg- 
lected. In  vain  did  his  teacher  rap  his  knuckles 
with  the  fiddle-bow  and  threaten  him  with  dis- 
missal. Yakov  knew  the  crosspatch  wouldn't 
keep  his  word,  for  he  was  a  pay  pupil;  not  much 
pay,  to  be  sure;  anyhow,  not  a  charity  scholar. 
The  magic  of  a  windless  June  night  trans- 
formed the  old  Red  Lion  court  into  an  operatic 
picture.  Moonlit,  it  recalled  a  prosperous  past 
that  had  hardly  modulated  into  its  present  mid- 
dle-class shabbiness.  Old  houses,  colonial  in 
style,  but  sadly  defaced  by  time,  slept  tranquilly 
in  the  magnetic  rays  of  a  moon  which  breasted 
the  low  housetops.  The  din  and  gabble  had 
ceased,  the  only  noise  being  the  sound  of  ham- 
251 


BEDOUINS 

mered  iron  on  the  anvil  of  the  blacksmith's  at 
the  corner.  So  changed  were  times  that  the 
legend  over  the  door  of  the  smithy  read,  "  Soko- 
lov  &  Griinstein  —  Horseshoers."  The  ancient 
and  honorable  profession  had  been  wrested  from 
sturdy  English  and  Irish  hands  by  the  more  per- 
sistent hosts  from  southeastern  Europe.  For 
Yakov  the  change  meant  nothing,  but  it  gave 
extreme  pain  to  Jimmy's  parents,  and  so  Jimmy, 
with  his  faithful  band,  was  in  the  habit  of  yell- 
ing defiant  and  insulting  words  at  the  two 
blacksmiths,  though  keeping  at  a  safe  distance. 
The  rhythmic  tapping  of  the  hammers  brought 
peace  to  Yakov,  who  stood  in  his  window  re- 
garding with  awakened  curiosity  the  spectacle 
of  the  Cardinal's  living-room,  lighted  for  the 
first  time  in  weeks;  perhaps  —  !  Presently  the 
sound  of  a  fiddle  oozed  through  the  open  space. 
He  was  back,  the  Cardinal  with  his  fiddle. 
What  was  he  playing?  Hymn  tunes,  surely. 
First,  the  Adeste  Fideles,  which  Yakov  remem- 
bered because  in  a  moment  of  condescending 
generosity  Jimmy  had  taken  him  to  Vespers  at 
the  Cathedral  and  had  told  him  the  name  of 
the  music  he  had  heard. 

Then  the  tune  shifted  to  a  more  solemn,  a 
celestial  tune,  indeed,  which  the  listener  couldn't 
place.  He  didn't  know  it  was  the  0  Jesu,  by 
Haydn,  but  that  didn't  matter;  his  ear  was  rav- 
ished by  its  pleading  strains,  and  he  hung  out 
of  his  perch,  tremulously  absorbing  every  tone. 
The  Cardinal's  humor  shifted.  He  dashed  off  a 
252 


THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 

gay  Tipperary  jig,  and  followed  this  with  The 
Valley  Lay  Smiling  Before  Me,  and  The  Harp 
of  Tara.  Yakov  felt  that  the  violinist  must  be 
an  Irishman,  but  ever  so  different  from  the  noisy 
Jimmy.  Yet  Irish ! 

What,  what!  He  pinched  himself  as  the 
grave  music  of  the  Kol  Nidre,  the  sacred  tune 
sounded  on  the  Day  of  Atonement,  came  swell- 
ing across  the  Cardinal's  windows.  The  Kol 
Nidre,  that  immemorial  cantillation  of  the  He- 
brews, in  it  compressed  the  dolors  of  the  ages, 
and  perhaps  first  chanted  in  the  house  of  Egyp- 
tian bondage,  perhaps  out  of  the  dim  centuries 
before  Egypt,  before  the  shadowy  Sumerians! 
Who  knows?  What  concerned  the  boy  was  the 
strange  happening  —  a  potentate  of  the  Gentile 
Church  playing  on  a  fiddle  the  grand  and  ven- 
erable hymn  of  the  Jews.  But  that  he  was  fas- 
cinated by  the  music  he  would  have  rushed 
down  to  his  mother  to  tell  her  the  glad  tidings. 
She  knew  of  the  playing  across  in  the  palace, 
and  was  pleased  because  of  Yakov's  evident  in- 
terest. She  would  welcome  the  return  of  the 
Cardinal,  for  her  boy  would  be  again  spurred  to 
study.  He  couldn't  leave  the  window  till  the 
last  note  had  been  squeezed  from  the  august  and 
mournful  melody. 

In  a  fever  Yakov  seized  his  tiny  instrument 
and  lovingly  mimicked  the  Cardinal.  Its  squeak 
reached  the  priest,  who  came  to  the  window 
and  waited  until  Yakov's  imperfect  interpreta- 
tion of  the  Kol  Nidre  ended,  and,  smiling  a  kind 
253 


BEDOUINS 

smile  that  melted  the  heart  within  the  bosom 
of  the  boy,  he  waved  a  slender  hand,  as  if  to 
say,  "I  salute  a  brother  artist!"  It  was  too 
much  for  Yakov,  who  ran  to  his  mother's  sew- 
ing-room, there  to  pour  out  his  joy  and  receive 
her  gentle  blessing.  He,  too,  would  play  the 
fiddle  like  the  Cardinal— play  the  Kol  Nidre  for 
a  hall  full  of  listeners,  who  would  applaud  him ! 
The  mighty  Cardinal  had  played  the  Kol  Nidre 
for  the  poor  little  Jew  boy,  and  he  hadn't  even 
bowed  his  profound  gratitude ! 

On  wings  of  song,  he  mounted  the  stairway  to 
his  garret,  but  the  music  was  no  longer  heard, 
though  the  windows  were  still  alight.  Not  able 
to  control  himself,  Yakov  took  his  instrument, 
and,  all  the  while  playing,  marched  down-stairs 
into  the  court,  and  in  the  mystic  moonshine  he 
played  on,  played  the  Kol  Nidre.  Soon  the 
gang  surrounded  him,  and  Jimmy  the  Brick 
cried:  "Aw,  give  us  a  rest  with  that  tune.  Play 
a  coon  song."  Yakov  only  shook  his  head  and 
kept  on  playing. 

"Stop  it,  I  say!"  yelled  Jimmy.  "We  want 
none  of  yer  Kike  music  in  this  court.  D'ye 
hear?"  Yakov  still  played,  and  the  tune  rang 
out  with  the  terror  and  desolation  of  the  Day 
of  Atonement. 

"Hit  him,  Tony !  Grab  his  fiddle, you  Wop ! " 
hoarsely  commanded  the  leader.  The  boys 
closed  about  him  and  in  a  twinkling  the  current 
of  the  music  was  cut  off,  the  red  violin  smashed 
into  a  hundred  bits,  the  bow  snapped  in  two  and 
254 


THE  CARDINAL'S  FIDDLE 

its  coarse  hair  twisted  about  Yakov's  neck.  He 
fought  silently,  tearlessly.  The  firm  of  Sokolov 
&  Griinstein  came  to  his  rescue,  and,  being  mus- 
cular men,  they  routed  the  band  and  sent  the 
victim  to  his  home  with  consoling  phrases.  But 
he  was  hopeless.  That  another  fiddle  might  be 
bought  for  him  found  no  place  in  his  whirling 
imagination.  He  had  been  cruelly  treated. 
Why  should  he  be  so  punished  ?  As  he  sank  on 
his  knees  at  his  attic  window  tears  flowed  and 
sobs  followed.  Yakov  mourned  and  would  not 
be  comforted.  And  across  the  court  in  the 
chamber  of  the  palace  the  Cardinal  played  with 
exquisite  melancholy  that  antique  Hebraic  tune, 
the  Kol  Nidre. 


255 


VI 

RENUNCIATION 

The  hearts  of  some  women  are  as  a  vast  cathedral. 
There  are  its  gorgeous  high  altars,  its  sounding  gloom,  its 
lofty  arches,  and  perhaps  in  an  obscure  niche  burns  a  tiny 
taper  before  the  votive  shrine.  And  many  pass  through 
life  with  this  taper  unlighted,  despite  the  pomp  and  cere- 
monial of  the  conjugal  comedy.  Others  carry  in  the  little 
chapel  of  their  hearts  a  solitary  glimmering  lamp  of  love 
that  only  flames  out  with  death. 

A  GRAND  piano,  its  burnished  ivory  teeth 
gleaming  in  the  candle-light,  stood  near  the 
open  window,  and  at  it  one  lounged  and  idly 
preluded  Schumann-like  harmonies  that  ques- 
tioned the  night.  Outside  a  veiled  fumidity, 
behind  which  lurked  thunderous  prospects;  the 
air  was  still  with  languorous  anticipation,  and 
the  month  of  the  year  was  April.  He  would 
not  have  been  human  and  an  artist  to  have 
withstood  the  dumb  depression  of  the  moment. 
Snatches  of  heavily  brocaded  harmonies  of 
Chopin,  mute  interrogations  of  Brahms,  and 
furtive  glitterings  of  Liszt  vibrated  through  the 
chamber.  One  sultry  chord,  persistently  re- 
peated and  unresolved,  told  the  temper  of  him 
who  played. 

It  was  a  sober"apartment;  a  half-score  of  wax 
tapers  sang  with  a  bunch  of  tuberoses  a  sweet 
duo. 

256 


RENUNCIATION 

A  few  chairs,  some  music  scattered  about,  a 
tall  bookcase,  gaunt  and  shadowy  in  the  back- 
ground, and  a  polished  floor  made  the  ensemble 
of  an  artist's  living-room.  The  playing  grew 
vaguer  and  the  night  without  more  menac- 
ing. Then  the  first  eight  or  ten  bars  of  the 
prelude  to  Tristan  und  Isolde  forced  into  shape 
on  the  keyboard  and  —  hush !  a  delicate  knock 
at  the  door.  He  harshly  called,  "Entrez!" 
She  was  without  a  wrap,  her  head  enveloped  in 
a  filmy  burnoose.  She  faltered,  then  moved 
to  him  as  moves  a  sleep-walker.  "I  know  that 
it  is  wrong,  but  I  —  how  can  I  help  it  ?  I  have 
come  to  you  —  and  you?"  She  paused,  her 
face  illuminated  by  love-doubt.  His  voice  was 
muffled  when  he  answered  her,  "Pray  be  seated, 
madame." 

She  divined  his  reluctance:  "We  leave  to- 
morrow, and  you  must  play  for  me  once  more." 

"I  could  have  called  at  your  hotel,"  he  gently 
replied. 

Impetuously  she  cried:  "I  have  risked  much 
to  be  near  you,  to  hear  you  play;  yet  you  stand 
coldly,  and  after  yesterday —  Ah,  you  for- 
get!" 

"I  do  not  forget,"  he  replied. 

She  moved  toward  him;  his  reserve  vanished 
and  he  advanced  with  both  hands  outstretched. 
"Dearest,  it  is  madness.  See,  it  is  late;  you 
will  be  missed,  and  the  night  bodes  a  storm. 
Play !  I  would  play  for  you  if  Paradise  threat- 
ened and  hell  yawned  rather  than  refuse  you." 
257 


BEDOUINS 

"Play!"  she  cried.  "Play  for  me  Chopin, 
but  do  not  come  near  me."  He  shivered,  and 
their  eyes  kissed,  hers  burning  like  misty-green 
signals  of  love  and  sorrow;  then  he  faced  the 
night  for  a  moment,  and  turning  to  the  piano 
began  without  preluding. 

It  was  the  Second  Impromptu  of  Chopin,  the 
rarely  heard  one  in  the  key  of  F  sharp,  major 
mode.  As  he  struck  the  octave  in  the  bass  the 
approaching  storm  muttered  in  the  west,  the 
wind  soughed  into  the  room,  and  the  flame 
of  the  wax  tapers  flickered  faint  messages 
to  the  tuberoses.  She  on  the  couch  sighed 
softly.  The  magic  of  Chopin  enveloped  them 
as  the  plaintive  theme  broke  the  air  into  melodic 
ripples.  It  sang  her  into  depths  of  dreams, 
anterior  to  which  lurked  other  dreams  —  dreams 
with  soft-sounding  syllables,  dreams  that  lapped 
her  consciousness  into  the  golden  gloom  of 
drugged  slumber,  dreams  opal-tinted  and  music- 
melancholy  beyond  compare.  She  swooned  and 
then  swam  out  to  the  infinite  with  bold,  blissful 
strokes,  for  he  was  playing  with  rare  cunning 
the  closing  choral-like  measures  of  the  first  part 
of  the  Impromptu. 

The  moan  without  deepened  into  a  roar,  then 
came  a  vermilion  flash  followed  by  a  crash  of 
thunder.  The  lights  were  extinguished,  all  but 
one,  swayed  feebly  in  the  rush  of  the  wind,  and 
the  tuberoses  listened  thirstily  to  the  plash  of 
the  new-born  rain. 

He  had  begun  the  D  major  section  of  the  Im- 

258 


RENUNCIATION 

promptu;  the  rhythmical  swing  of  the  bass 
seemed  a  proud  spirit  defying  destiny,  and  the 
massive  chords,  with  virile  assertive  tones, 
blended  with  the  night  and  roared  answer  to 
the  thunder's  bellow.  They  rose  to  a  crescendo, 
they  dominated  all,  for  the  man  within  was 
storming  out  his  resolves  and  passions  on  the 
keyboard.  The  fury  increased  to  a  sheer  height 
of  tone;  then,  melting  away  into  a  mere  echo,  it 
almost  fainted.  His  soul  chased  hers  and  to- 
gether they  followed  the  enigmatic  tones  of  that 
modulation  which  is  an  abysm  betwixt  fragrant 
meads,  and  warns  them  that  seek  its  depths. 
The  lovely  F  major  part  glimmered  in  the  air. 

"Come  back  to  me,  to  the  first  of  all; 
Let  us  learn  and  love  it  over  again. 
Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 

Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 
And  gather  what  we  let  fall." 

"Browning,"  she  softly  mused,  "and  life." 
The  plot  thickened,  the  harmony  grew  denser  — 
a  musical  palimpsest  lay  before  them,  and  as 
they  strove  to  unweave  its  meaning  they  shud- 
dered at  the  gulf.  Weary  and  panting  in  spirit 
they  stared  askance  and  questioned  the  future. 
"Not  that,"  the  music  implored.  Then  burst 
that  delicious  cascade  of  silvery  scales.  They 
coruscated,  they  foamed,  they  boiled  with  melo- 
dic laughter.  It  seemed  as  if  God  was  with  the 
world  and  he  and  she  heard  the  lark  trilling  to 
the  dawn  as  hand  in  hand  they  mounted  in 
259 


BEDOUINS 

their  dizzy  flight.  Their  naked,  unabashed 
souls  groped  in  the  azure  and  they  carolled  that 
song  which  is  as  old  as  eternity.  They  fell 
through  space  into  fathomless  twilight,  and  the 
piano  sang  the  echo-like  refrain  of  the  first 
motif.  It  was  the  swan-song  of  their  hopes. 
The  heavy-scented  night  spoke  softly  to  their 
hearts;  a  nightingale  dimly  piped  in  the  distance, 
and  with  velvety  clangor  the  music  ceased. 

He  remained  at  the  piano.  She  rose.  With- 
out were  odors  and  starlight.  The  two  drank 
each  other's  gaze  with  the  thirst  of  lost  souls. 
Then  she  went  into  the  night,  and  the  other  one, 
staring  at  the  tuberoses,  heard  their  perfumed 
murmur:  "Renounce  thou  shalt;  thou  shalt  re- 
nounce." 


260 


VII 
THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

"To  be  in  Heaven  the  second,  he  disdains: 
So  now  the  first  in  Hell  and  flames  he  reigns, 
Crown'd  once  with  joy  and  light:  crown'd  now  with  fire 
and  pains." 

— Phineas  Fletcher  (1582). 

I  AM  not  a  diabolist.  I  was  an  agnostic  until 
...  I  have  read  Huysmans  and  I  do  not  believe 
he  ever  saw  half  he  describes.  Yet  I,  and  in 
commonplace  America,  have  seen  things,  have 
heard  things,  that  would  make  mad  the  group 
of  Parisian  occultists.  I  dislike  publicity,  but 
Vance  Thompson  has  asked  me  to  relate  the 
story,  and  so  I  mean  to  give  it,  names  and  all, 
with  the  fauit  hope  that  it  may  serve  as  a  warn- 
ing to  callow  astrologists,  and  all  the  younger 
generation  affected  by  the  writings  of  impious 
men  who  deny  the  existence  of  the  devil. 

More  than  twenty  years  ago  I  was  the  organist 
of  a  Roman  Catholic  church  in  the  lower  part 
of  my  city.  I  had  studied  the  instrument  in 
Germany  and  believed  in  Johann  Sebastian 
Bach.  I  played  and  pedalled  fugues  on  week- 
days for  my  own  pleasure,  and  on  Sundays  exe- 
cuted with  unction  easy  masses  by  Bordoni, 
Mercadante,  and  Haydn;  my  choir  was  not  an 
ambitious  one.  The  stipendium  was  small,  the 
261 


BEDOUINS 

work  light,  and  the  two  priests  amiable  enough. 
One,  a  German,  Father  Oelschlager,  was  the 
rector.  His  assistant  was  an  Irishman  with 
French  blood  in  his  veins.  His  name  —  shall  I 
ever  forget  his  name  and  face?  —  was  Father 
Michael  Moreau.  He  was  crazy  about  music 
and  occultism.  The  former  he  made  no  secret 
of;  the  latter  I  discovered  only  after  a  long  ac- 
quaintance. Moreau  came  to  the  organ-loft 
when  I  practised  on  week-days,  sang  a  little, 
and  feasted  much  on  Bach  chorales.  Urged 
often  to  visit  his  room,  I  did  so,  and  he  showed 
me  rare  black-letter  missals,  and  later  the  backs 
of  a  number  of  old  books  whose  titles  I  could 
not  decipher.  I  am  no  Latinist,  yet  I  knew 
these  volumes  were  written  neither  in  Latin  nor 
Greek.  The  characters  I  had  never  seen  before, 
and  when  I  remarked  their  strangeness,  Father 
Moreau  smiled  and  even  laughed  as  I  quoted 
Poe:  "the  volumes  of  the  Magi  —  in  the  iron- 
bound  melancholy  volumes  of  the  Magi." 

Music  led  us  to  discuss  religion,  and  my  friend 
astonished  me  by  his  erudition.  His  sensitive 
features  would  become  illuminated  when  he 
spoke  of  the  strange  tales  of  the  Talmud.  "Oh, 
my  God !"  he  would  cry  with  a  patibulary  ges- 
ture. "Why  hast  Thou  not  vouchsafed  us  more 
light?"  And  then  would  beg  for  Bach,  and  on 
the  mighty  stream  of  the  D  minor  fugue  his  har- 
assed mind  seemed  to  float  and  find  comfort.  As 
time  wore  on  he  grew  morbid,  morose,  reticent, 
and  devoted  himself  to  his  dull  duties  with  a 
262 


THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

fanaticism  that  was  almost  harsh.  The  parish- 
ioners noticed  it,  and  his  reputation  for  saint- 
liness  increased.  His  confessional  was  always 
crowded  and  his  sermons  remarkable  for  the 
acerbity,  the  awful  pictures  he  made  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  damned  and  of  the  relentlessness 
of  God's  wrath.  His  superior,  good-natured 
Father  Oelschlager,  bade  the  other  look  at  the 
cheerful  side  of  the  question,  to  believe  more  in 
God's  mellowness  and  sweetness,  and  would 
quote  Cardinal  Newman's  Lead  Kindly  Light, 
and  certain  comforting  texts  from  the  Scriptures, 
and  then  smoke  his  pipe.  But  the  ascetic  tem- 
perament of  Moreau  barred  all  attempts  at  pal- 
liation or  attenuation  of  the  God  of  Hosts,  of 
the  God  who  laid  low  the  pride  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  Life  to  him  was  a  cancer  to  be  extir- 
pated, and  he  confessed  to  me  one  night  after 
rehearsal  that  he  had  almost  doubted  God's 
existence  and  courted  suicide  after  reading 
Renan's  Vie  de  Jesus.  I  suggested  change  of 
scene,  less  strenuous  labors,  above  all,  the  world, 
music,  and  athletics.  My  advice  availed  not, 
and  I  saw  that  Father  Moreau  was  fast  becom- 
ing a  monomaniac.  His  sermons  during  the 
hot  summer  were  devoted  to  the  personality  of 
the  devil,  to  his  corporeal  existence,  to  his  daily 
presence  in  the  marts  of  mankind;  and  so  con- 
stant was  his  harping  on  this  theme  that  Father 
Oelschlager  had  to  forbid  him  the  subject.  "It 
is  so  warm,  my  son !  Why,  then,  do  you  hold 
forth  on  hell?  Let  the  poor  people  hear  more 
263 


BEDOUINS 

of  the  crystal  rivers,  the  green  meads  of  the 
New  Jerusalem.  It  would  be  more  seasonable." 
Moreau  frowned,  but  obeyed  his  superior. 

With  the  autumn  and  winter  his  habits  became 
more  secretive,  his  visits  to  me  less  frequent, 
and  his  air  of  detachment  most  melancholy. 
Advent  saw  him  a  mere  wraith  of  a  man,  worn 
by  speculation,  devoured  by  an  interior  flame,  a 
flame  that  was  wasting  his  very  soul  to  despair. 
He  seldom  conversed  with  me,  although  I 
watched  him  anxiously  and  occasionally  interro- 
gated him  regarding  his  health.  At  last  I  spoke 
to  his  associate,  but  encountered  an  easy-going 
philosophic  spirit,  which  assured  me  Father 
Moreau  was  going  through  what  most  young 
priests  should.  He  was  at  the  period  of  unfaith, 
was  nettled  by  doubt,  and  after  he  had  wrestled 
with  Satan,  and  won  the  good  fight,  he  would 
again  become  normal.  This  seemed  consoling 
though  vague. 

The  day  before  Christmas  I  promised  that  I 
would  not  send  a  substitute  to  play  the  mid- 
night mass  at  the  church.  Our  church  was  the 
only  one  in  the  city  where  the  old-fashioned 
mass  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve  was 
celebrated.  It  is  located  near  the  river,  and  my 
journey  was  a  long  one,  for  I  lived  up-town.  I 
ate  a  six  o'clock  supper  and  went  to  bed,  telling 
them  to  arouse  me  at  a  quarter  before  eleven. 
I  wished  to  be  fresh  for  the  early  service.  By 
eleven  I  was  out  on  the  street,  and  took  a  car 
bound  south.  I  reached  the  church  in  time, 
264 


THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

and  soon  the  solemn  high  mass  began.  My 
choir  had  with  elaborate  care  prepared  Cheru- 
bim's mass,  and  despite  the  poor  organ,  the 
extra  chorus  and  much  enthusiasm  made  some 
effect.  The  congregation  was  attentive,  and 
Father  Oelschlager  delivered  a  short,  happy  ser- 
mon, urging  his  flock  to  rejoice  at  the  birth  of 
the  Babe  of  Bethlehem,  Jesus  the  Infant  Christ, 
uncrucified,  but  newly  born  into  a  world  of  toil 
and  sin  for  our  redemption.  At  the  consecra- 
tion of  the  host  the  good  rector's  beaming  faith 
was  most  edifying.  He  was  served  by  Father 
Moreau,  a  melancholy  deacon,  indeed.  "Ite 
Missa  Est"  pronounced,  the  faithful  dismissed, 
I  was  overjoyed  at  the  release,  for  I  was  tired. 
The  choir  chatted  about  the  service,  the  singing, 
and  at  last  I  was  alone.  I  placed  the  music- 
books  back  in  the  tall  Gothic  cupboard,  closed 
the  manuals  of  my  instrument,  and  put  on  my 
overcoat.  It  must  have  been  half  past  one,  per- 
haps quarter  of  two,  and  I  relished  the  prospect 
of  my  arrival  home,  where  a  warm  breakfast 
would  be  awaiting  me,  and  then  once  more  to 
bed,  for  I  had  to  play  the  regular  half  past  ten 
o'clock  Christmas  mass  for  the  benefit  of  the 
sleepy  ones,  who  loved  their  couch  better  than 
their  Christ. 

Father  Moreau  met  me  at  the  bottom  of  the 
choir-loft  steps.  He  was  dressed  for  the  street, 
his  eyes  were  blazing,  and  as  he  took  my  arm 
his  fingers  were  vise-like.  "Will  you  come  with 
me?"  he  asked.  I  was  startled.  I  explained 
265 


BEDOUINS 

that  I  would  not  have  much  rest,  nor  should  he 
waste  his  sleeping  time  on  the  dismal,  cold 
streets;  besides,  I  was  hungry.  I  feared  that  he 
was  about  to  deluge  me  with  more  of  his  studies 
in  the  customs  of  the  early  Gnostics,  and,  to  be 
quite  frank,  I  was  worn  out  and  not  in  a  recep- 
tive humor  for  such  untoward  cryptic  wisdom. 
Any  other  time  —  "Will  you  come  with  me?" 
he  reiterated,  and  the  clutch  on  my  arm  became 
oppressive.  "Where?"  I  asked,  for  I  hated  to 
affront  a  friend.  "Will  you  come  with  me?" 

By  this  time  the  church  was  quite  empty, 
and  I  pushed  out  into  the  street.  It  was  dark 
and  snowing  hard.  We  walked  toward  the 
street,  and  as  we  neared  the  corner  I  heard  the 
lucky  sound  of  a  horse-car  —  there  were  no 
trolleys  then.  I  excused  myself,  ran  and  caught 
the  car;  the  priest,  following,  sat  down  beside 
me.  I  paid  both  fares,  and  as  I  had  nothing  to 
say  we  preserved  a  sad  silence.  The  mean  light, 
the  deserted  streets,  the  lonely  car,  and  the 
muffled  strokes  of  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  snow 
chilled  my  soul.  I  looked  sideways  at  Father 
Moreau.  He  was  reading  a  big  parchment- 
covered  book,  which  I  saw  by  the  dim  lamplight 
was  entitled  Le  Satanisme,  by  Jules  Bois.  I  was 
shocked.  A  priest  fresh  from  the  holy  sacrifice 
of  the  mass  devouring  the  blasphemies  that  I 
was  sure  were  in  the  gruesome  volume,  alarmed 
my  piety.  Presently  he  saw  me  and  shut  its 
leaves.  "There  are  curious  things  in  it,  my 
dear  friend,"  he  muttered,  and  his  voice  came 
266 


THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

from  across  a  waste  of  sorrow.  " Curious  things; 
but  you  are  a  believer,  are  you  not?"  he  eagerly 
repeated.  "I  am,"  I  replied  devoutly,  and  I 
crossed  myself.  He  fairly  jumped  at  me,  his 
eyes  wide  open  and  full  of  devouring  flames. 
"Will  you  come  with  me?"  he  almost  screamed, 
and  for  the  fourth  time.  "East  Street,"  called 
out  the  conductor,  and  rather  than  let  my  half- 
mad  companion  alone  —  he  surely  must  have 
been  mad  —  I  left  the  car  with  him,  the  con- 
ductor gazing  after  us  with  cynical  eyes.  He 
evidently  took  us  for  belated  revellers. 

We  walked  slowly  for  ten  minutes  until  we 
arrived  in  front  of  a  sad-looking  church,  and 
then  I  stopped:  "The  place  is  not  open  yet; 
they  do  not  have  Christmas  service  until  five 
o'clock."  For  the  last  time  my  companion 
whispered,  "Will  you  come  with  me?"  and, 
pushing  past  me,  struck  three  times  on  the  big 
doors.  A  small  postern  gate  opened  at  once 
and  we  entered  the  vaulted  passageway.  I 
trembled  at  the  strangeness  of  the  adventure, 
and  held  fast  to  Moreau,  for  it  was  pitch  black, 
and  while  I  heard  soft  footfalls  beside  me  —  the 
footfalls  of  an  unknown  man  —  I  could  not  see 
my  hand  before  my  face.  We  must  have  trav- 
ersed a  long  yard,  for  the  wind  blew  freely 
about  me;  I  heard  it  playing  on  the  housetops 
like  a  balloon  in  distress.  Yet  it  felt  as  if  issuing 
from  a  sepulchre,  and  my  heart  went  to  my 
empty  stomach.  Even  in  my  growing  terror  I 
craved  for  coffee;  its  aroma  would  have  made 
267 


BEDOUINS 

me  stronger  for  this  inhuman  cruise.  We  went 
down  eleven  steps  —  I  counted  them  —  my  con- 
ductors on  either  side  of  me.  Dampness  and 
malodors  warned  me  of  our  proximity  to  some 
ancient  cellarage,  some  forgotten  catacombs, 
wherein  Father  Moreau  expected  to  give  me  a 
sacerdotal  surprise,  a  revival  perhaps  of  an 
antique  and  early  Christian  ritual.  I  feebly 
applauded  his  intentions,  but  wished  he  had 
chosen  some  other  time  and  that  the  surround- 
ings had  been  less  sinister. 

At  last  we  paused  and  descended  another 
flight  of  steps  —  this  time  I  didn't  number  them, 
for  the  cold  was  intense,  and  it  was  with 
relief  that  we  suddenly  arrived  in  a  dimly  lighted 
and  warm  chapel.  It  was  empty,  devoid  of 
pews,  of  chairs,  of  furnishings  of  any  sort,  except, 
at  the  upper  end,  a  small  votive  altar.  Before 
it  swung  a  lamp  of  Byzantine  workmanship,  in 
which  burned  a  solitary  tongue  of  yellow  flame. 
The  lamp  swayed  rhythmically,  and  on  the  altar 
were  two  tall  tapers,  lighted  and  perfumed.  And 
then  my  eyes  rested  on  the  spot  where  should 
have  been  the  tabernacle,  surmounted  by  the 
gold  cross.  Judge  of  my  consternation  when  I 
saw,  saw  as  distinctly  as  I  see  the  pen  which 
traces  these  letters,  a  huge  bronze  serpent,  with 
overlapping,  glistening,  metallic  scales.  The  eyes 
of  this  python  were  almost  feminine,  and  their 
regard  gentle,  reproachful,  and  voluptuous.  My 
knees  bent  beneath  me  and  my  face  was  wet 
with  fright. 

268 


THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

"You  are  a  believer,  then?"  crooned  a  dull 
voice  in  my  ear.  It  was  Moreau.  He  had 
thrown  off  his  outer  wrap  and  stood  in  a  black 
soutane.  He  was  white  with  emotion  and  said 
in  tenderest  accents:  "Listen;  be  my  friend. 
Do  not  desert  me  at  the  crisis  of  my  life.  It  is 
to  be  my  first  mass,  my  first  three  o'clock  mass. 
My  deacon  is  already  at  the  altar.  Be  the  soli- 
tary worshipper.  It  will  be  a  low  mass  —  re- 
member, a  low  mass!"  He  spoke  clearly,  rap- 
idly, sanely,  and  seeing  that  I  had  something 
more  than  a  lunatic  to  deal  with,  I  removed  my 
overcoat  and  knelt  down  near  the  altar  just  as 
Father  Moreau  ascended  its  steps,  his  assistant 
holding  the  end  of  his  Hack  canonicals.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  the  apparition  of  the  serpent, 
I  might  have  fancied  that  I  was  assisting  at  the 
lonely,  pious  vigil  of  a  parochial  curate.  But 
the  eyes  of  the  serpent  devoured  mine,  and  I 
had  none  for  the  two  silhouetted  figures  that 
went  through  with  febrile  velocity  the  familiar 
motions  of  the  mass.  It  was  low  mass,  and 
from  the  introit  to  the  preface  the  space  was 
scarcely  appreciable.  I  heard  mumblings,  and 
the  air  became  chillier  as  the  celebrants  moved 
and  bowed  or  extended  arms;  the  air  grew  colder, 
denser,  and  tenser.  It  vibrated  like  the  wires 
of  a  monstrous  zither,  and  my  temples  throbbed 
as  if  in  the  midst  of  a  magnetic  storm.  I  felt 
that  I  was  nearing  a  great  catastrophe,  that  God 
had  abandoned  His  universe  to  its  wicked  will, 
and  that  I  must  sob,  or  scream,  or  pray,  or  die, 
269 


BEDOUINS 

or  be  damned  forever,  or  —  the  tap  of  the  sil- 
very little  bell  was  as  if  a  sweet  summer  air  had 
swum  over  my  agitated  soul.  It  was  the  bell 
that  announced  the  solemn  moment  when  God 
became  man,  when  the  divine  spirit,  by  the 
miracle  of  transubstantiation.  became  flesh  and 
blood. 

In  an  ecstasy  of  faith,  of  awe,  I  plunged  on 
my  face  and  adored  and  wept,  and  a  mighty 
wind  swept  from  the  altar  with  strange  moanings 
and  lamentings,  and  the  lights  were  extinguished; 
yet  there  was  a  luminous  fog,  that  enfolded 
us,  and  in  it  I  saw  the  great  serpent,  symbol  of 
wisdom,  symbol  of  eternity,  rear  spirally  aloft, 
and  beneath  it  —  oh,  beneath  it!  —  was  the 
Beatific  Vision.  In  swelling  nimbus  of  flame 
was  a  counterfeit  Mother  of  God,  and  holding 
the  hand  of  Him,  of  the  Infant,  Jesus,  born  but 
three  hours,  and  —  oh,  the  horror  of  it!  —  not 
my  Christ,  not  our  Christ,  not  the  Christ  of  the 
Christians,  but  an  Antichrist  from  some  fetid 
hell,  sent  to  seduce  us,  curse  us,  destroy  us! 
My  eyes  almost  burst  from  their  sockets,  and 
the  humming  of  hell's  loom  roared  about  me  as 
I  met  the  gaze  —  of  the  Woman.  And  now 
her  eyes  were  the  serpent's  eyes,  and  on  her  head 
was  the  crown  of  hell  and  its  multiple  kingdoms. 
She  was  naked,  and  set  against  her  breasts  were 
sharp  swords.  She  was  Mater  Malorum,  and 
her  breath  sowed  discord,  lust,  and  cruel  murder. 
I  yearned  to  pronounce  the  name  of  the  true 
Mother  of  God,  to  bid  this  blinding  vision,  this 
270 


THE  VISION  MALEFIC 

damnable  vision,  vanish,  but  my  tongue  was 
like  wet  twine  and  my  sight  blistered  by  the 
pageantry  of  Satan,  of  Satan  and  his  Dam.  And 
as  I  struggled  the  silvery  little  bell  tapped  once 
more,  and  in  a  fading  perspective  I  saw  the 
Madonna  and  the  Child  give  me  such  a  sweet, 
beseeching  glance  that  my  heart  dissolved  within 
me,  and  I  cried  aloud,  my  tongue  snapping  in 
the  roof  of  my  mouth: 

"Mary,  Mother  of  God,  preserve  us  from  the 
Devil  and  all  his  works!"  A  withering  streak 
of  light  struck  my  eyeballs,  and  I  glimpsed  the 
serpent  falling  to  earth  with  distended  jaws,  as 
two  priestly  figures  reeled  off  the  altar-steps, 
and  in  the  brassy  clangor  of  despair  we  fell,  all 
three,  and  swooning  blackness  shut  down  upon 
us  like  smothering  velvet. 

It  was  still  dark  when  solicitous  hands  lifted 
me  to  my  feet:  my  coat  was  thrown  about  my 
shoulders,  and  I  was  hurried  in  shivering  gloom 
to  the  street.  The  other  one  disappeared  at  the 
little  postern  gate,  and,  parting  outside,  with 
damp,  hot  hands,  and  face  plastered  with  hide- 
ous passion,  the  mad  priest  said  to  me,  in  a 
cracked  voice: 

"You  have  seen  my  God,  the  only  true  God 
of  hell  —  heaven  and  earth/' 


271 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


What  some  distinguished  writers  have  said  of 
them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do 
you  know  that  'Iconoclasts'  is  the  only  book  of  high 
and  universal  critical  worth  that  we  have  had  for 
years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg  Brandes.  It  is  at 
once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indulgent  and 
sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and 
clarity  with  which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  liter- 
ary and  artistic  movements  in  all  countries.  L  do  not 
know  of  criticism  more  pure  and  sure  than  yours." 
(October,  1915.)  

"The  Mercure  de  France  translated  the  other  day 
from  Scribner's  one  of  the  best  studies  which  have  been 
written  on  Stendhal  for  a  long  tune,  in  which  there  was 
no  evasion  of  the  question  of  Stendhal's  immorality. 
The  author  of  that  article,  James  Huneker,  is,  among 
foreign  critics,  the  one  best  acquainted  with  French 
literature  and  the  one  who  judges  us  with  the  greatest 
sympathy  and  with  the  most  freedom.  He  has  pro- 
tested with  force  in  numerous  American  journals 
against  the  campaign  of  defamation  against  France  and 
he  has  easily  proved  that  those  who  participate  in  it 
are  ignorant  and  fanatical." — "Promenades  Litteraires" 
(Troisieme  Serie),  Remy  de  Gourmont.  (Translated  by 
Burton  Rascoe  for  the  Chicago  Tribune.) 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of 
"Egoists":  "I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of 
your  book  and  found  that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic 
style  on  diverse  problems,  artistic  and  literary.  In  the 
case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity  of  treatment  is  ex- 
tremely rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Geprg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound 
Danish  critic,  wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view 
and  its  expression  more  European  than^  American;  but 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  an  artist  to  your  very 
marrow." 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


UNICORNS 

"The  essays  are  short,  full  of  a  satisfying — and  fascinating — 
crispness,  both  memorable  and  delightful.  And  they  are  full  of 
fancy,  too,  of  the  gayest  humor,  the  quickest  appreciation,  the 
gentlest  sympathy,  sometimes  of  an  enchanting  extravagance." 

— New  York  Times. 


MELOMANIACS 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  sum  up  'Melomaniacs'  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater  con- 
trasts, not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clearness  and 
obscurity." 
—HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8, 1906). 


VISIONARIES 

"In  'The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both  fan- 
tasy and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in  his  most 
unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his  Nietzsche  and  has 
cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Hawthorne's  Puritanism  finds 
no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all  sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed. 
But  Hawthorne's  splendor  of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with 
a  tormented  mind  do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 
— London  Academy  (Feb.  3, 1906). 


ICONOCLASTS: 

A  Book  of  Dramatists 

"His  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  it  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in  which 
e  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every  sentence." 
— G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  News. 


MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN 
MUSIC 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to  the 
music  and  gives  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as  few  words 
as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine,  broad,  sweeping 
strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  unimportant  details.  And 
as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  powerful  personality,  a  man  of 
quick  brain  and  an  energetic  imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  tem- 
perament— a  string  that  vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — 
we  get  in  these  essays  of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable 
contribution  to  the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


BOOKS    BY    JAMBS    HUNEKER 


IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

"Out  of  the  depressing  welter  of  our  American  writing  upon 
aesthetics,  with  its  incredible  thinness  and  triteness  and  paltriness, 
its  intellectual  sterility,  its  miraculous  dulness,  its  limitless  and 
appalling  vapidity,  Mr.  James  Huneker,  and  the  small  and  honor- 
able minority  of  his  peers,  emerge  with  a  conspicuousness  that  is 
both  comforting  and  disgraceful.  .  .  .  Susceptibility,  clairvoyance, 
immediacy  of  response,  are  his;  he  is  the  friend  of  any  talent  that  is 
fine  and  strange  and  frank  enough  to  incur  the  dislike  of  the  mighty 
army  of  Bourbons,  Puritans,  and  Boeotians.  He  is  innocent  of 
prepossessions.  He  is  infinitely  flexible  and  generous.  Yet  if,  in 
the  twenty  years  that  we  have  been  reading  him,  he  has  ever  praised 
a  commonplace  talent,  we  have  no  recollection  of  it.  His  critical 
tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .  His  position  among  writers  on 
sesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no  merchant  traffics  in  his 
heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager,  an  affectionate  public. 
Is  it  because  he  is  both  vivid  and  acute,  robust  yet  fine-fingered, 
tolerant  yet  unyielding,  astringent  yet  tender— a  mellow  pessimist, 
a  kindly  cynic?  Or  is  it  rather  because  he  is,  primarily,  a  tem- 
perament— dynamic,  contagious,  lovable,  inveterately  alive — ex- 
pressing itself  through  the  most  transparent  of  the  arts?" 
—LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  American  Review  (October,  1915). 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a  crafts- 
man of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive  and 
distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists.  He  is 
intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers,  and  not 
lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  Ancient  seren- 
ity has  laid  no  chastening  hand  on  his  thought  and  style,  but  he  has 
achieved  at  times  a  fineness  of  expression  that  lifts  his  work  above 
that  of  the  many  eager  and  artistic  souls  who  strive  to  be  the  thinkers 
of  New  England  to-day.  He  flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent 
heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape 
that  large  sentimentality  which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic 
writers,  is  known  nakedly  as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos 
of  reading  and  observation  he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of 
life  that  makes  for  intellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bo- 
hemian rather  than  an  academic  kind.  Given  a  different  environ- 
ment, another  training,  Mr.  Huneker  might  have  emerged  as  an 
American  Walter  Pater." — London  Athenaeum  (November  6,  1915)- 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

FRANZ  LISZT 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHOPIN:     The  Man  and  His  Music 


OVERTONES: 

A  Book  of  Temperaments 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD  STRAUSS 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 
brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 


THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 

"He  talks  about  Bergson  as  well  as  Matisse;  he  never  can  keep 
still  about  Wagner;  he  hauls  over  his  French  library  of  modern 
immortals,  and  he  gives  a  touch  to  George  Moore,  to  Arthur  Davies, 
and  to  many  another  valiant  worker  in  paint,  music,  and  letters. 
The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even  with  an  unexpected  bril- 
liancy."—Chicago  Tribune. 


PROMENADES  OF  AN 
IMPRESSIONIST 

"We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for  us  the 
technical  contributions  of  Cezanne  and  Rodin.  Here  Mr.  Huneker 
is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience  of  men  and  ways 
in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the  slighter  vein,  are  such 
appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Chardin." — FRANK  JEWETT 
MATHER,  JR.,  in  New  York  Nation  and  Evening  Post. 


EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT  AND  FACSIMILE  REPRODUCTIONS 

"Closely  and  yet  lightly  written,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing  as 
a  bit  of  discursive  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  and  very  shrewd." 
— ROYAL  CORTISSOZ,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


Om-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS2044.H4B4 


3  2106  00207  30C 


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